autotelic, autistic, assonance-hole©.

Intermittent random ramble

It occurs to me that life is mostly a series of random, often disturbing surprises that are occasionally punctuated by equally unexpected delights. We move through our day to day routines, contortions of conformity and compassion, or reflexive reaction that intends to dodge the rocks and, here and there, succeeds, but usually results in a unique patterns of bruises that render us walking abstracts – artistic renderings of a life not so much planned as pursued.

I am noticing more the strange and beautiful ways in which this chaotic series of flinches and flutters moves; apophenia, perhaps; the surging and convergence of strangers and sharings seem to take on recognizable shapes, traceable patterns. I follow them with my mind, my heart, and find an odd comfort in the thought that they do so regardless and independent of any “meaning” I may wish to assign them.

Today, I am contemplative. Hardly unusual, I know. Actually, more like filled with wonder and an almost painful sense of appreciativeness. I cry and laugh; tears of honor to imponderables that move me to try and express them when I know that pixelated letters are, at best, pointless.

My daughter called and interrupted this effort. I say it was an interruption, but it was, in fact, a evidencing of the very wonder I am attempting to capture. Poorly, of course, but hey, you work with what you have, right?

We spoke of hats. Actually, we spoke of holidays a continent apart and how cheerful gifts of thoughtfulness can soothe the sense of distance and render presence more active. She always tells me not to spend “a lot of money” on her and I always tell her not to worry about “the perfect gift”. It’s our way of trying to soothe our respective worries in relation to how well we understand and commune. I suppose you could say that real love is the kind that would rather have a flea market blanket with kittens, a curious treasure of missed alignment that reminds you it’s not about being aligned.

In this moment, I am wrapped in the warmth of passive presence; softly cushioned by the sense that distance matters not. It is a nice feeling; balm upon artistic bruises.

I initially thought I had lost the momentum of this piece. Now I realize that, in fact, I have found it.

I love you.