Spark Plug Sonatina

Sunday is the most conspicuous day of the week. It sparkles with leisure and maple syrup. Its hours are insoluble albeit easy to ponder. We give ourselves the kind of embellishment we deserve, which is all anyone can do under such dubious circumstances. We’re grateful for the long song of the windmills. All the experiments are a success and all the mosquitos draw blood with the blush of sincerity. Hope overflows with hummingbirds. I think I’m in love with the rain. Especially when it begins with a rumble. Thunder in the distance. Flash of lightning. Followed by another roll of thunder. How can you not love that? Or ivory or neurology? How can you not love nerves? Nerves love you. You should love nerves back. It takes nerve. But give me one more day, and I’ll find a stylus for the record player, and a premise I can support with rope and suction. This may have no function outside of a musical context, but I promise you the storm will be huge, and the winds will be strong, and the thunder loud, and the imperceptible perceptible. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, I enjoy putting words together, I can’t help not do it, they’re there, they’re just there, they’re everywhere, self-propagating constantly, I’m just elbowing my way in, entering the brawl, the dance, the big new paragraph, crowded like a New Orleans bar on the eve of Mardi Gras. Focus, understand, the words say drifting by. And when the words disappear the sky walks back up into the sky and sits down and lights a pipe and takes a swig of sunlight. Sometimes the only solution is to make our mind do push-ups on nothing. No good punch was shaped by logic. Cognition is tricky. Most of life occurs in the space between what I know, what I think I know, what I don’t know, & what I just said, which is not what I meant.  There’s a place, we all have one, where it’s all just a matter of attitude. One might be living in a pile of shit and believe oneself in paradise. How you get there is your own damned business. You can take a bus. You can take a train. You can take a tug or a bug or a drug. You’ll need time. You’ll need space. But believe me, if you’re unable to get out of your chair without losing your balance & tipping over somebody’s wine, don’t let it get you down. At night, in bed, I listen to Zen masters ask “what is the essence of Zen,” & the answer is never the same. Sometimes it’s pickles. Sometimes it’s Tik Tok and Twitter & zombies eating their brains. And sometimes it’s a feeling hanging in the still air of the mind, swinging from neuron to neuron, creating correlation.