The Probablities of Gray

Who doesn’t like silk? I like silk. Do you like silk? I climbed out of a deluge yesterday and the first thing I saw was a consonant groaning under the weight of a drumstick. Some of my emotions are tilted and full of ostentation but most of them hide under the bed when the light is turned on. Money is only a rumor. Time is a mildly personal cartwheel. And so I got a job photographing gargoyles in the wild. This required oranges, sedatives, and whistles. I parked my clothes in the garage and went swimming.

Sooner or later a dream of death will blend with enough syntax to become orthogonal. If this happens, assemble a thyroid. It helps to hop into a little cotton and apply some gravity to a predisposed weight. If the weight isn’t heavy it’s probably an eye. All the flowers cry “hinge.” What is meant by “hinge”?

Everything in life is a door. The rain is a door and the reflections in the puddles are doors. Even the doors of perception are doors. They were the first doors I remembering opening. I must’ve been young when that happened. Quite possibly before I was born. I was dead before I was born. I must’ve been, because I don’t remember being alive. At some point I must’ve opened a door and crawled into life.

Warts aren’t doors but they do make good windows.

I need a good generality to wire a resumé so that it lights up and gets me the kind of job I want. Which is what? Geez, I don’t know. I do enjoy sweeping. The broom and I get into a rhythm I can only describe as a gravitational wave. It feels a little like giving benediction to a participle.

Everything has a structure. Even a puddle has a structure. If it drops below zero your average puddle will succeed easily at becoming ice. If stepped on, it will crack. Things with structure generally crack. But don’t try experimenting with a pillow. You’ll only wind up frustrated and begin writing poetry.

I see most things as a tendency. According to quantum theory, matter doesn’t exist at the subatomic level with any degree of certainty. Rather, it shows tendencies to exist. These tendencies are expressed as probabilities, shoehorns, and cats.

Or waves. Almost everything is a wave of some sort. An energy moving through the water or the fluidity of our lives causing perceptions to roll and swell and flop down on a rock or a stretch of sand, preferably the nice white sand at Carmel, California, where tendencies to do anything or create anything are immense probabilities regaling the mind with regenerative power.

Of course, the probabilities of quantum theory are purely mathematic. These probabilities make waves that oscillate in time and space like the vague uncertainties of hotel accommodations before we arrive at our destination and enter the lobby in our fatigue and rumpled clothing after our ride from the airport in heavy traffic in a foreign city.

Probability waves aren’t like the waves in the ocean on a windy day but are abstract mathematical patterns.

I think of myself as a consortium of waves. Cells and waves. Cells in waves. Events rippling through me creating attitudes and opinions, appetites and tempests.  

Tendency is what permits the waterfront to become a semantic vehicle of treasured moments. Quiet, sad, reflective moments. This makes walking, which is a simultaneity of legs in movement, wander into thought and invite itself to get written down.

As I am now doing. If I rub the cement a certain way it becomes provocatively indefinite. It begins to boil and transmit meanings that I can wrestle into grammar and allow myself to dilate and blast into parallels and comparisons, weighing and distilling, searching for meaning in an aquarium or T-shirt. If I can infringe on the veracity of fingernails for a moment, I would like to offer a murmur of optimism to the absent-mindedness of wool. People call this “wool-gathering.” I see it as a tribute to the color gray. Perhaps I can one day forge a chariot of sparks and withdraw into privacy to enjoy the probabilities of gray. Meanwhile, I’ll just sit and watch the sun as it moves through sky flattering the trees and feeding their leaves a salad of nuclear fusion.