I love the way the seagulls line up for the sun.
Whole is to whole as each part is to each part.
WHAT? YOU’RE IN MY PLACE, YOU BIG-BRAINED PIG.
I am the only one here now, the loud Americans, who strolled fleetingly, are leaving. The sun hits my back, the birds face the sun and me. One is crying, a young female. She must be hungry or in pain. The others try to ignore her, move away. They tuck their heads in their feathers. A little nap.
It seems to be possible for someone to possess virtue while being asleep.
MOVE. IT’S MY CHAIR.
One has gone into the ocean, bobbing like a rubber ducky, joined by a lone, blond woman who swims slowly parallel to the shoreline. The boisterous family’s conversation has faded into the hum of a seaplane.
These men, they crowd my brain with their ideas. Like dominant chimps, trumpeting. I would like to take the stones on the sea floor, the ones that lead down a path to understanding, the ones they laid, and skip them along the shoreline into the trees and shrubs, wild like hummingbirds, and hurl them into the air as balloons, to watch the helium expand and pop.
For one swallow does not make a spring, nor does one day.
PAGE117, 25 TEXTS SENT IN LAST HOUR.
The happy person is a sort of chameleon and on unsound footing.
The birds are scattering to other early mourning beach visitors, perching on logs. They want snacks.
…one cannot do well for oneself in the absence of household management.
The sun rises higher above the trees in Stanley Park. Baulking crows chase an eagle. Day spreads like dirty butter across the sand.
Chameleon light shifts over the undulating granular surface. Unsound thoughts, unsound footing, unsound. The bird near me, the only one left, the whiner, is no longer whining, but is still restless. Earlier, she was pulling at a feather stuck in the sand and I thought maybe she is just the dumbest of all the birds. But now I see there is some connection between her and the feather. She remains near it, steadfast.
But it is difficult sometimes to decide what sort of thing one ought to choose in return for what.
A cloud passes over and goosebumps and a shiver scratch my skin and spine. A woman arrives with her dog and says to the dog, ‘Go get them. Go get the birds.” The whiner flies away with all the others, reluctantly leaving the feather.
Time to go. MOVE OVER.
For happiness is in need of nothing but is self-sufficient.
Not really a Biography
I have always been inclined to move forward, roll the stone, down, and often up, hills. I've tried to write through it all. Everything on this blog is written by me.