Even as I type my ponder in prose, if I might call it that myself, I am half tempted to write a verse, if I might call it that myself, like I did countless times before. But for the love of long, compound sentences and for the love of someone named the "little one" who urges me to shun my temptation to write the so called verse, cause that little someone finds it utterly non-decipherable, which of course must be a euphemism for nonsense, I resist the urge and persist in prose.
I know, that's getting a little cheesy, this rhyme thingie. Just this morning, I was saying to myself "Don't sweat the small things" while I was trying to manifest a writing desk by the window of my bedroom, wherein a decently meager view of some nature occurs in the otherwise concretey suburbs of the lovely golden state . That desk did manifest by the way, and all that is left is for me to sit there and manifest the next NY times bestseller. But that's beyond the point, and a little delusional perhaps (I'll check with the Little one on that thought) - I did further think of a post script for the "Don't sweat the small things" sentiment which went "All things are small things" - now I need a separate blog post to ponder on that after thought, but for now, I'll cease to sound like the presumptuous teen and get back to sounding less presumptuous. So, for now, it is about the vista point, and about the vista point in so called prose, presumably in some polished prose.
A few winters ago, I found myself in Las Vegas for Thanksgiving break. We ganged up with near and dear and parked ourselves leisure in The Venetian. Now, If I were more regular or religious with my travel logs, I'd have pondered on and on about my experience in Venice, Italia, and not the replica that was so flawlessly created in the city of sin. I heard the same friend of mine that came to Vegas tell me when we were in Venice as to how the replica had created a bar for her and Venice didn't really measure up to that bar. Before I digress and make it about Venice, let me get right on track. The replica was immaculate, and why not? Probably just like silk flowers that look flawless when pitched against their natural counterparts. Anyway, the ambiance of the hotel, probably the recreation of twilight to an eerie perfection, drew me towards it like a powerful magnet. On one of the lamp posts in the said replica, a bird sat perched. For some strange reason, it tweeted the same exact moment I passed by. I stood there, tracing the sound waves and freezing my eyeballs on the bird there - for a moment, in all honesty, forgetting that I was in a make believe world and that bird could have been a part of it. I saw it croon in ease, its feathers ruffling ever so slightly, its fluffy belly inflating as it opened its tiny beak to call for me and then it goes back to its perfect perch. It took me a moment of intense observation to understand that it wasn't real and my awe for it grew even more.
The next morning, I woke up before the rest, probably in the wee hours and embarked on a sole walk in the company of myself, to take another look at the bird, secretly and foolishly fearing that it might have flown away. When I got there, sure it was right there, and sure it charmed me again with that tweet. I sat by the bench in full view of the bird, cranking my neck and being immensely charmed by the creativity that went into it. Completely discounting the fact that it isn't the original.
Up until lately, I had this awe for man created stuff - be it music, art, literature, architecture or anything else that falls in the premise. But I cannot trace back the connection I felt toward nature. For as long as I can recollect, I was the happiest in the company of flora and fauna. But somehow, there was this subconscious "taking for granted" I did with the Almighty's creation. In a very amusing way, this 'taking for granted'ness reminded me of how us humans take the most precious, priceless things for granted - a drink of pure water, a whiff of fresh air or even a mother's love, that we so often just get blind to, never ever pausing to reciprocate or to even feel it in the truest essence.
The other day, I see the almond tree in the front yard doing a full blown display of blooms. I saw it from the open blinds of my window freezing all thought, all personal narration and naming and just experiencing that creation that sprung out of drab soil, peeking in full glory out of dead looking branches. Not a trace of a leaf. It looked like a promise, a reassurance of abundance, a little sign of the infinite creation manifesting right there in front of me. "How can we ever beat that intelligence" I had said out loud. Probably in a whisper. The significant other that was in the ear shot, looked at where I was looking and smiled like he agreed. Suddenly it occurred to me, that all we need to know is right there inside of us, waiting to teach us, to get us closer to our source, only and only if we adjust our visors, and our vista points.
