the warm morning breeze was blowing in the west window. the sun was streaming across the quilt. dogga was laying at our feet and we were sipping coffee. we could hear the slight echo of the windchimes out back and the birds were singing up a symphony.
perfection.
in-between all the other moments – the ones that are not so perfect – somehow there slips one that is.
and the axis of the earth gives a little shake-off and the flecks of yucky-dust that have accumulated from those other moments fly off.
conked out. it’s the end of the workday, the end of playtime, the end of the evening, the end of the month, the end of the year and they are conked out. so are we. with toys strewn about, they collapse on the floor, a wary eye on each other every so often, just making sure. but mostly, sleepy, eyes closed, soft sighs.
we feel the same way. conked out. it has been a year. tomorrow we’ll search for some sage to burn on the first day of the new year, smudging room by room, letting the snuffed flame’s gentle smoke chase out the negative and allow new light in.
conked out. it feels like a repeating theme…a basso ostinato…a foundation upon which we are all arriving at this last-day-of-the-year station. exhaustion seems to be the grounding venn diagram of all those we have spoken with. like lines of the composer john cage: dissonant polyphony, indeterminate chance-filled melodies, questioning, shapeless and yet heading in some vexing conclusive direction. 2019. confusing and atonal with a lack of rests, avant-garde, but in all the wrong ways.
as we approach the last minute of the last day of this year, we sneak a peek at the new year. new beginnings. we sigh. deeply. looking ahead.
i glance at a small sign i have on the wall. it is not without noticing the irony i read a quote from john cage, “begin anywhere.” a good place to go from conked out.
reverse threading 