A few weeks ago I get up at the usual time, a few hours before dawn, and see the moon out my window and think, “Well, now I have to take a picture of it.” 

The moon is full but it is dark and I think it is veiled by a cloud but there are no clouds and then I remember someone said there would be an eclipse.

Moon keeps time.

Sun keeps time.

Winter solstice is next week.

The revolution of the Earth cannot be stopped.

Today, at the usual time I crawl out of the primeval crud of sleep and dream to write these words.

 

I can’t really tell you — whoever you are — who, what, HOW, I am — although I can say WHERE — 

I am as always — in a life raft somewhere in the limitless ocean of being, the limitless chaos of becoming, in an inflated vessel adrift on the surface of the mirage of life.

I am making marks on the fabric of the boat that I am not even sure are words. 

Neither do I know what to make of these metaphors I’m mixing.

My mind lifts my body off the couch and pushes it out the door to get groceries.

My body is a life raft for my mind.

My mind pulls my body back inside and throws it back on the couch.

I take pictures of the sky and post them, as if no one else looks at the sky.

I write words in a notebook and digitize them, as if no one else has any words.

Later I read the words and they make sense but have little value.

I read what I wrote and it is like being in a laundromat and discovering all the coins in my pocket are Canadian.

Sunday I’ll put them in the offering plate.