Dang it, the piano is collecting dust, and I feel like life is running me. The frustration builds as my mountain bike, too, gathers a bit of dust, though not too much, and I suck down antibiotics for the ear infection that manzanita in bloom seems to bring on. Just talked to the hairdresser, too -- seems we forgot to make our follow-up appointment, and two or three local businesses await my call back on services that cannot be rendered until I figure out how to put my life in order. Spring. So I sat on some rocks today at Whiskeytown Lake while my son made a special shrine to the quartz crystal he found. We walked there, to some remote spot, where the dog chased the Canada geese, and I learned how sharp rocks can indent the behind. Om mani padme hung hri. I'm not sure why the edges blend, why things have to accrue a sense of busyness, for me to come home to what matters. It's when all the trying blends into all the happening that life is both rich and utterly lost, and free will becomes only a wish, but in that, noble enough is best. A glass of saki helps steady the imagination, along with bowls of meat and barley. Or white rice and organic kale, sprinkled with Braggs Liquid Aminos. And a little bluegrass music helps, especially mandolin and piano. Piano. The other night, I opened to Beethoven's Sonata Facile and played it on through, having not done so for at least twenty-two years. I felt the young woman in the fingers, all her joys and sorrows, and my fingers remembered most everything, especially the recurring mistakes. I loved her then, as I love her now, the best fruition of not-knowing an older me can think of. These are the words of a madwoman whose days have just given her an hour extra to contemplate the sky.
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