In my New Day I arose from my screen-tent-squirrel-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River at the Mattice Landing with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass swishing against my pant legs and the crunch of course sand under my feet that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of my childhood and youth where I spent summers working
at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep cold sea of countless converging never-ending rivers lakes trees swamps bogs muskeg and mountains of snow where snow white and black flies freely fly.
I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages but now also following a more pastoral idyllic and super-natural course.?
A vagabond never quite understands the working-class woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze. Work ethic Family hearth and home? Days of scent of freshly mown grass ? barbeques campfires ? coffee brewing ? children playing ? TV and music blaring ? dishes rattling in sink or swim in the lake.?
Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing but going deeper into the trees and bush burning speaking to our primeval consciousness. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses swishing . . . ?? The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand ? between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin. Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding, even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised sleep.??
I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand. I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.
I must taste life Smell and feel life Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind
against the backdrop of the latest holy war and the imploding creations of our kind.