I am out to dinner with Ray Bradbury. It’s raining hard outside. My entree is gone, and I’m left with coffee, a book in my lap, and my phone in hand.
Learning is something I’ve never figured out. I am a laggard, a loafer, and an idiot.
I want to be dragged across life like a messy paintbrush. Knowing you, you might scoff or smile at my using passive voice there, but I don’t think stars or quarks worry about where they are going in life, and from what I can tell, they’re having a hell of a time.
Some day I’ll have children, and I’ll pray. My hope is that my son will hold an ear of corn all afternoon, turning it over and over in his hands, deciding with every breath to wonder more.
This evening I harbor the suspicion that there are wanderers, and wonderers, and wandering wonders: the widening gyre. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake at dawn to discover the first midden heap, the anchor, the memory. But I doubt it.
My mind is open, my lips are parted, but my heart is lost in some deep wood.
Someday I might know why rain makes me feel old. Now, I hide from the knowledge.
The day we understand is the day we die.