This is not a hillbilly shillelagh. It's a beaver stick. It's what happens when a beaver gets into his work. I'm prepared to say a lot of things about beavers and their ways, but I can't. Not today.
Today is one of those cold Spring grey days. I'm listening to Dylan's "Dark Eyes" and wondering when the mangoes on the window sill will be fit to eat. "Hunger pays a heavy price to the fallen gods of speed and steel,"sings Bob and now the phone rings. It is a telemarketer. Selling cemetery plots, auto insurance, and get-rich-quick warranties for factory rebate offers. The answering machine clicks on. Whir.
I lost a lot of music in the crashing of my G4. Some nice field recordings, too. What can I do but mourn that loss? There will be others. A long list of losses will drag me around town until God's name goes up in lights and the Messiah rises from his celestial tomb, handing out early bird specials to the old matriarchs in recherche swimsuits. Perhaps then I will be able to "accept" loss, whatever that means.
We think that loss is something that haunts us along the path. It's not, though. Loss is the path- so be wary of gains. More to the point, there is no path. Loss is all there is. But the losing of everything is the feeling of being alive, the moment-to-moment. Sometimes we lose because of what is taken. Other times the loss is what we give willingly. From far off, these two different things look just alike.
1 comment:
Dean said he'd replace your drive and take a stab at recovering your data. I hope you and the family are keeping well.
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