The late-summer dew on the grass at dawn: I would lay there, belly down on the earth, at 5:30 in the morning, my eyes level with the drop-laden blades, if I didn’t care so much about getting my clothes wet. I really would. I really want to, I say to myself.
I would lay there and would look deep into the grass stretching for hundreds of feet ahead of me, the thousands of skinny green lines crossing and weaving in and out of each other; one water orb loses its friction and slides into another, the attraction of their bonds too much to resist, and they collide in a sparkling subtle explosion. Then the grass blade bends and the new larger water orb tumbles off, the blade springs back up, and the dew drop loses itself altogether as it splatters on the ground and is sucked in.
Then I'd roll over the cool morning field in a state of calm rapture for having witnessed the journey of that dew drop into the earth. My clothes would have sopped up hundreds of other drops as I rolled. Or I'd be naked, and my skin would become soft and slick with this dew water that had floated through the heavens, rising some time before, through the past day or night, possibly from some stream or lake away from here, then condensing as it encountered the heat of the earth; so it settled as it did, gently on the green field--an individual drop or two or three on each blade.
I would be bathed in this. The water would seep into me and wrinkle my fingers eventually.
I'd still myself again and gaze. I’d blow on one of those dewy globes—they’re not mere drops of water, see; they’re crystalline or something, quartz, glass, clear and radiant and polished, petit, delicate—and I’d send my breath in a steady current until the dew reached the apex of its grass blade’s curve, and then I’d gently position my finger below, give one final blow to tip it over the edge, and let it trickle onto my fingertip.
Then I’d smell it. Then I’d taste it.
Then I’d turn over onto my back, eyes on the sky that would be smeared with melting pink clouds, the sun rising up beneath them, hallelujah, rays would find my dampened stomach, maybe a soft steam would rise from my body, visible breath out from the lungs in me, early light glow
like golden yellow-orange,
not too opaque,
mist, droplet,
emerald-lime-olive-pine-sea greens,
auburn-sepia-coffee-chocolate soil,
cerulean-turquoise-aquamarine-mixed-with-white sky,
still not too opaque,
mellow-yellow-spring-yellow-moonlight-yellow-in-the-morning flowing sun,
lightly amber-tinted pastel-rose spotty clouds,
color, color, color,
senses overwhelmed in the calmest possible way.
Hallelujah... Dear God.
And I see,
I feel with abandon.
I really, really would love to do this.
I think of these things of fresh liberation--BE A FREE SPIRIT!--very frequently.
But
I guess I’d rather not get my clothes wet, and I’d probably rather not wake up at 5:30 in the morning. That is, right now, my blunt and honest reality. That is my mind.
I would love to dance around in sheets and sheets of rain, shrieks of glee, my untempered self for once, not critical, not ashamed, not awkward because I think I should be doing this or that, I think someone is watching.
I would love to cover my body in mud. I would love to kneel in the middle of a city street and examine cracks in the pavement as people walk by. I'd be barefoot and would feel every texture under my heels and toes. I would love to, I would love to, I would love to--
But I’d get soaked and I’d get dirty with the mud, and to clean myself afterwards would be an ordeal, and I can’t ruin my jeans because they cost me $40. And in the city, people would see me. People would see me picking at the concrete, watch me, stare, see how "weird" I can be.
This is how I have actually lived for the most part. Frightened. Self-conscious. Delicate.
(And of course, yes, of course I know... What does it really matter if "people" see me? We most likely wouldn’t even encounter each other again, they’d barely give me a passing glance in the first place. Yes, yes, there is that realization.)
There’s a lot of missed meaning in my life.
But, right? Don't you think it does matter...? I mean, they’d see my bare feet on the dirty concrete. They’d see that I wasn't bothered by it. They'd think I was "trying to be a hippie." They'd think I was dirty. They'd think I have no right to be so free.
They'd see me untamed, a savage, an animal in the field. What business would I have to be up at 5:30 in the morning when I don't have work until 2 in the afternoon?
I would disturb people!
Right?
Or ...it's me who I'd disturb?
I would unravel.
I would lay there and would look deep into the grass stretching for hundreds of feet ahead of me, the thousands of skinny green lines crossing and weaving in and out of each other; one water orb loses its friction and slides into another, the attraction of their bonds too much to resist, and they collide in a sparkling subtle explosion. Then the grass blade bends and the new larger water orb tumbles off, the blade springs back up, and the dew drop loses itself altogether as it splatters on the ground and is sucked in.
Then I'd roll over the cool morning field in a state of calm rapture for having witnessed the journey of that dew drop into the earth. My clothes would have sopped up hundreds of other drops as I rolled. Or I'd be naked, and my skin would become soft and slick with this dew water that had floated through the heavens, rising some time before, through the past day or night, possibly from some stream or lake away from here, then condensing as it encountered the heat of the earth; so it settled as it did, gently on the green field--an individual drop or two or three on each blade.
I would be bathed in this. The water would seep into me and wrinkle my fingers eventually.
I'd still myself again and gaze. I’d blow on one of those dewy globes—they’re not mere drops of water, see; they’re crystalline or something, quartz, glass, clear and radiant and polished, petit, delicate—and I’d send my breath in a steady current until the dew reached the apex of its grass blade’s curve, and then I’d gently position my finger below, give one final blow to tip it over the edge, and let it trickle onto my fingertip.
Then I’d smell it. Then I’d taste it.
Then I’d turn over onto my back, eyes on the sky that would be smeared with melting pink clouds, the sun rising up beneath them, hallelujah, rays would find my dampened stomach, maybe a soft steam would rise from my body, visible breath out from the lungs in me, early light glow
like golden yellow-orange,
not too opaque,
mist, droplet,
emerald-lime-olive-pine-sea greens,
auburn-sepia-coffee-chocolate soil,
cerulean-turquoise-aquamarine-mixed-with-white sky,
still not too opaque,
mellow-yellow-spring-yellow-moonlight-yellow-in-the-morning flowing sun,
lightly amber-tinted pastel-rose spotty clouds,
color, color, color,
senses overwhelmed in the calmest possible way.
Hallelujah... Dear God.
And I see,
I feel with abandon.
I really, really would love to do this.
I think of these things of fresh liberation--BE A FREE SPIRIT!--very frequently.
But
I guess I’d rather not get my clothes wet, and I’d probably rather not wake up at 5:30 in the morning. That is, right now, my blunt and honest reality. That is my mind.
I would love to dance around in sheets and sheets of rain, shrieks of glee, my untempered self for once, not critical, not ashamed, not awkward because I think I should be doing this or that, I think someone is watching.
I would love to cover my body in mud. I would love to kneel in the middle of a city street and examine cracks in the pavement as people walk by. I'd be barefoot and would feel every texture under my heels and toes. I would love to, I would love to, I would love to--
But I’d get soaked and I’d get dirty with the mud, and to clean myself afterwards would be an ordeal, and I can’t ruin my jeans because they cost me $40. And in the city, people would see me. People would see me picking at the concrete, watch me, stare, see how "weird" I can be.
This is how I have actually lived for the most part. Frightened. Self-conscious. Delicate.
(And of course, yes, of course I know... What does it really matter if "people" see me? We most likely wouldn’t even encounter each other again, they’d barely give me a passing glance in the first place. Yes, yes, there is that realization.)
There’s a lot of missed meaning in my life.
But, right? Don't you think it does matter...? I mean, they’d see my bare feet on the dirty concrete. They’d see that I wasn't bothered by it. They'd think I was "trying to be a hippie." They'd think I was dirty. They'd think I have no right to be so free.
They'd see me untamed, a savage, an animal in the field. What business would I have to be up at 5:30 in the morning when I don't have work until 2 in the afternoon?
I would disturb people!
Right?
Or ...it's me who I'd disturb?
I would unravel.
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