Sometimes, the dictation is muted. I mean, the source from where I conjure up the stuff I type here, it actually is dictated to me from an unknown source and that kind of becomes like an 'out of network area' scenario, and then I get this writer's block thingie - but the procrastinator that I'd become lately, I take it as an opportune moment to put off my writing catharsis. Now I am not here to write epic fiction (or non fiction) anyway, so I thought I'd listen to what ever static doused and distorted signals I'd get from my inside and write anyway!
So It's October of 2019 - Around a decade ago, I remember wondering how fast we'd zoomed past that decade and yet, here we are, much faster than the previous one, zooming past into 2020. Time had really got on some sort of fast forward since my third decade and I sit here realizing it wouldn't be too long before I claim my senior citizen perks if this is how time decides to travel, and the worst part is, I don't even know if I'd stick around to avail those irresistible discounts. The other day, I was going through a cooking spray and was mighty miffed at the opaque can which quit spraying on me right in the middle of 'time sensitive' dosa making. Know what I mean ??
Who knows man? who knows?
So October - of any which year - Fall is here. The diagonal neighbors have their immaculate lawn punctuated with foamy cobwebs and DIY ghosts. The next door has a blow up figurine of a scarecrow dressed in a candy cane motif. The leaves look like they are being shaded by a perpetual light, turning a 'lit from within' green yellow in clusters. I spot birds in all shapes colors and sizes, hanging out in hoards, on the pear tree in the back yard, In the neighbors' Japanese maple that's dresses for fall without anyone bringing out stowed away seasonal decor of yellows ,oranges, reds and browns, and on the cables hanging high over the Boulevard, where I bear right on my daily commuting route- I wake up to a hazy, dark morning when large birds with larger vocal cords tweet themselves hoarse flying in a perfect parabola. The migration began perhaps, They probably take a break in my neighborhood, in my backyard. Did they pass this way before? Would they pass this way again? My mind ponders in assorted, useless questions.
The creek will start to over flow once the rains hit. The steps that dip into the creek and transport me to the sprawling park from my street would soon be barricaded. I'll take the round about pedestrian trail and get there here after. The farmer's market is closed until next spring, and the most wonderful time of the year is around nine weeks away - I see an foreshadowing of sledges and tinsels in the aisles everywhere I stop to shop, subtly rushing in the time, like it needs to be rushed. I crank up the thermostat, sitting under the vents that spew out warm dry air, smelling toasty, like embers in a camp fire. I slather salve on my dry soles and tuck them cozy into fluffy slippers. The snooze button gets abused, the mornings get rushed. I take a mental note to beat the cold and rise and shine my own warmth, my own light! Sometimes, it's best to look inward.
Or it's probably best to look inward at all times. There's a source in there - that works as a better coping mechanism than getting tipsy, draining down mugs of tea or the good ole retail therapy - only if you look in and let it take over that is. So I remind myself to shut it down, this workshop that spins thought after thought in incessant chatter - most of which needs to be husked to reveal an insight, a lesson or an instruction. I heard a wise man say recently, that when you shut the thought down and create space, you let in the source to operate it for you - probably like those birds let it in and fly in impossible precision creating visual geometry in the sky or those oaks and cherry trees that turn a light green and a yellow and then a brown to a crispy matte dark brown, curled up to create a crunch under the walk way - what thought and intellect aids them really? The same one that dictates to me once in a while. I sit here and complain that I don't hear it often. Like the mistake lies elsewhere and I am the victim.
Irony!
But then, there's a profound wisdom that dawns upon you and you stay mute. It just becomes a poor imitation of the actual thing - a mediocre attempt to xerox those miracles into word strings.
I know, I need a pause. A long, empty one. The emptier, the better!
And pray why they say "empty" as if it is a sorry word! Tch tch...
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