![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Nature Boy
Jun. 24th, 2003 11:50 amObservations on the nature of nature.
Trees have auras, and I can feel them. Yeah, I think it's crazy, but who am I to argue with my hands and thousands of years of chinese thought.
I gaze out my window everyday, hoping to see the Mythical White Bug. Some people have a white buffalo, a white whale. I have a white bug. Looks like a floating piece of cotton. Fuzzy & white. I caught one once, it was certainly not cotton, and it leaves a slimy white-out like substance on your hands before disappearing.
Like Jesus, I broke bread and fed hundreds. Today, several birds ate the buckets of stale bread I spilled in the yard. A curious squirrel climbs a nearby pole on which we have hung on one side a bird feeder, the other side a large wind chime that sounds like a cow bell. Squirrel climbs the pole, briefly inspects the chime, before reaching out and pushing it. Bong! All the birds scatter, each wondering for whom the bell tolls. The squirrel, obviously frightened by the bell and its affect on the birds, bolts for a tree and refuses to set foot on the ground until judgment day.
After a rough day freaking out about things I have little control over, the wife and I decide to make a night time trip to the mountains. I sat upon the Spy Rock overlook, the mist descending from a starry sky, the mountain sloping down below. I played my guitar, poorly but affectionately in the dark. I imagined that scene in the stupid, but oddly entertaining film "Three Amigos," when they sing around the camp fire and all the animals come out and sing with them in beautiful voices. Only, in our mountains, my playing would be accompanied by the cruel whispers of huge red-eyed moths, the shriek of restless crickets, the plop of exploding mosquito bodies, and the death metal growl of bears. Sounds just fine to me.
Trees have auras, and I can feel them. Yeah, I think it's crazy, but who am I to argue with my hands and thousands of years of chinese thought.
I gaze out my window everyday, hoping to see the Mythical White Bug. Some people have a white buffalo, a white whale. I have a white bug. Looks like a floating piece of cotton. Fuzzy & white. I caught one once, it was certainly not cotton, and it leaves a slimy white-out like substance on your hands before disappearing.
Like Jesus, I broke bread and fed hundreds. Today, several birds ate the buckets of stale bread I spilled in the yard. A curious squirrel climbs a nearby pole on which we have hung on one side a bird feeder, the other side a large wind chime that sounds like a cow bell. Squirrel climbs the pole, briefly inspects the chime, before reaching out and pushing it. Bong! All the birds scatter, each wondering for whom the bell tolls. The squirrel, obviously frightened by the bell and its affect on the birds, bolts for a tree and refuses to set foot on the ground until judgment day.
After a rough day freaking out about things I have little control over, the wife and I decide to make a night time trip to the mountains. I sat upon the Spy Rock overlook, the mist descending from a starry sky, the mountain sloping down below. I played my guitar, poorly but affectionately in the dark. I imagined that scene in the stupid, but oddly entertaining film "Three Amigos," when they sing around the camp fire and all the animals come out and sing with them in beautiful voices. Only, in our mountains, my playing would be accompanied by the cruel whispers of huge red-eyed moths, the shriek of restless crickets, the plop of exploding mosquito bodies, and the death metal growl of bears. Sounds just fine to me.
