Well spiccolis in my aether wary surrounds, I reminisce back to the days of floundering around in Falkenburg. Just a stone’s throw from the Harper’s Corners School and a dung hill width from Bardsville off the Brackenrig road.
Days were good there. The thick soft swish of summer breezes brushing my forehead as trodding toils were performed in the bush. Hot sun warming the earth creating that plush musty odor of leaves beginning to rot. Not a sound from steel or concrete here. Crunching of twigs and leaves underfoot reveal my presence to the unseen critters.
The oft scurrying sounds of mice, moles and voles skittering under the leaves as I pass their hidden abodes. The odd pernicious caw of an overhead crow waiting for another meal al á fortunado. I wander aiming off the path, avoiding anything I remember about a tree or swale. Finding a new way, seeing new trees, perspectives, and orientations.
The goal is not to DO anything, but to DO something I haven’t before. Perhaps trod on a rock never before a humans boot had scoured the lichens on. (again as before never end….). Ponder the possibility of postulating a locus from where I could see clearly. Is there further to go? Can you get there from here? Can I make that ridge? Is that for me?
As always the confines of reality bring me to a recognizable. I have been through this bush so often, in so varied a ways, with so many people, in so many seasons, by so many directions, it is inevitable that I eventually espy familiarities around me. Turn once or twice in nether or any direction, a hundred paces and I am returned to the knowledge of from whence I came.
On machines to this day on which I operate in my garage, they bring familiarity with time and touch. Do I stare at the complexity of composition for naught? No. It’s that repetitive analysis, disassembly and reassembly that raises my awareness of the machine's limits and possibilities. I know of drips and scripts which vary by process and procedure. I sup on the knowledge gleaned from inspection and reclamation.
I knew tree from tree, and stones from stones. The day awakened with a knowledge of my surrounds. Has the interweb thingy really helped?
Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.
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