I hear there is no time like the present. My present is full, very full; there is no time for new undertakings. My hands are shackled to the momentum of a day. I paint lists in the sky, watching my possibilities narrow. I mistrust the time. My time is too fast to be slow, yet, what I accomplish remains vague.
This is the list today: slingshot— shoot ball bearings across my backyard; take pictures of that old building— 35mm black and white, and those track's under the over pass; race for the cure— join a team. The list goes on, along time. Too long. It includes books and events, actions, people, animals, the universe and comsidering the possibility of there being no gods.
In there being so much to fathom and do, I find pleasure in mowing the lawn. This is a contemplative event worth varying. For one can mow at different intervals. Once a month mowing leads to heat exhaustion and a couple of hours worth of sweat. Were as by mowing every nine to twelve days and the process is expedited by nearly two thirds. Mathematically, I have yet to decide which conserves more energy. Life, clearly, is a conundrum.
I wrestle with the best of my faculties. I am bested at this game as I am not as clever as I once thought myself to be. It is the draw of the tide and the memorization of charts: ahha, I am human. I know with most of the cells in my body that I have stepped from an age of reason to one far beyond my means. I slip in to jeans, now a size I used to dream of, and examine my profile. I don't think that satisfaction is in my vocabulary. The top of my list is the perma-fast.
