Little River Beach Wood
Perhaps the more I tell you about it, the less it happened and the more it became the thing I told you about. I fear it sometimes, that hijacking of reality by our own exposition, boasting, apologizing for,or retelling in another medium besides brain wrinkling. On the other hand, why give me cognition if not to make abstractions of the things that happen to me? Am I trying to control what you think of me through how I represent myself, my deeds, travels and accolades? Perhaps, but are we not all understanding each other on another level that pays no attention to our words and pictures and symbols anyway? Isn't your gut just telling it like it is, and the reasons you make up to explain your reactions nothing but extraneous amusments playing between us in the air?
posted by mchughtie at 10:08 AM
2 Comments:
I have struggled to explain that feeling. And you have described it perfectly. Beautifully. A habit you seem to have. Thank you.
Not that it much makes a difference i suppose, but it is The Big River, not to be confused with Little River or the The Little Big River North Fork. The log was probably brought forth from the wilds by a surge of commerce and corruption fueling the Wild West's attempted taming in the 1700's and 1800's. Its closest relatives became cabinets, countertops, and walls in pre-earthquake SanFrancisco. It was the ubiquitous era of brothels and showdowns at pistol point, colorful background for something rendered bleached and dry by the passage of merely one or two centuries. That these moments remain merely electrical impulses in the folds of your unsightly grey matter if they fail to inspire art or expression, i doubt. The energy of emotion must surely have some impact on its surrounding. I'll have to ask a redwood tree about this.
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