High Without Reason

Don't know if I was feeling good or feeling bad or if I really need to invest in such judgments.

I just was. Thinking.

I thought about this and I thought about that and I thought about there, here, everywhere and nowhere. That took all of two seconds, so I sped away again in my mindspeeder... time travel is possible in the imagination.

Back in the present moment, drool was collecting on my bottom lip.

But whatever. I was all-thinking. I thought about God saying something like "I'm not in the business of making sense. I'm in the business of getting things done." Or "I don't have a license to practice logic. Don't need one. I'm God. But that's not my thing anyway-- logic was a game created by humans for humans to play. There's no universal rule that every "it" has to make sense. That's a human myth. But why would you listen to me-- I'm God."

Or some such noise.

I had to go to see my therapist. She's been helping me with my theoretical endeavors. The theology of it all. Does that thought really exist? Okay, so not really. But she has been helping me. She suggested that I get a dog. So we did.

Enter Muppet.

Muppet is a miniature poodle. I never thought I'd have a poodle. But I do. And he's perfect.

So we've transitioned from loving couple to loving trio. Mommie and Daddie and Doggie. We're all getting along quite famously.

I have no real reason for going on with this, this "writing." It doesn't make sense. Where's the issue? The contrast? The development and counterpoint and the suspense? Why would anybody wanna read any of this?

Um, God? Yeah-- little help here?

There are thoughts about sensitive issues. About saran wrap. About toenails and toejam. About the interplanetary rotation of it all. About the plastic in our lives. About the end of lives. About death and dying. About junkmail. About the fate of the puppeteer. About the long and the short of it. About why. About who. About when. About face.

Non-congenital thought disease.

Just needed to write something. Didn't care what. Who. Where. How. When. Anything.

Leave sense for the philosophers in the crowd.

There's so much thinking that goes on-- in so many directions. So much seems to have little purpose.

But that's on purpose.

The question is the little engine that could and will keep right on chuggin' along, running the universe.

Ask not what your country can do for you-- ask what you're doing for the everything.

I gotta go to the chiropractor-- disjunction adjustment required.

Isn't That Precious

"Are you in search of precious metals?" was the question as she came down the stairs, arms full of various shelving pieces. It was delivered with a heavy accent, as if dropped like a quote from a murder mystery. I'd be guessing if I tried to identify the language that the English was draped with. But what the hell-- I think it was Russian? I don't know-- my CIA skill set has never really been steadily developed.

"Unfortunately, no," I chuckled, with atrophied cleverness.

The conversation would end there. At least, between the two of us. But inside my head, it was only beginning.

I stumbled around inside my mind, fumbling with words, wondering more about the accent. Maybe it was French. I reaffirmed that I didn't know. All the while, I was continuing, walking away from her, never to converse with her again.

Then something shiny caught my eye; some sort of clip glistened at my feet, its gold and silver finish sparkling in the sun.

Precious metals. Indeed.

I bent over and picked up the metal object and placed it in my saddlebag pocket in my cargo type pants. A practice that I've replicated a hundred times over the last several years.

"I guess I am looking for precious metals," I thought, wondering why I had told the woman differently.

It was an article about found objects that started me looking at the ground more. And then it was an article on James Hampton, a quiet custodian who collected bits of foil and tin and assorted "refuse" and assembled "The Throne", an elaborate artwork that was discovered only after his death. It got me to start thinking about the hidden qualities in life-- and started me investigating the true meaning of value.

So I started noticing, while I was walking around, through parking lots and alleyways, all of the little things that are left behind, on purpose or by accident. And I started to collect some of them. I have tended to be drawn towards the dilapidated, rusted, and marred. And almost exclusively metal-- bottle caps, wire, shop scrap, etc. I've had the idea that I'm amassing a collection that I will one day assemble into some machine or diorama that brings all of these lost souls together, making it whole again.

So upon further review, I think I am in search of precious metals. At least, I'm trying to define what it is precious really means.