Frogs and dogs.
Frogs and dogs.
The little red house is surrounded by green. A young rabbit visits the garden, a garden that lies just beyond these steps. Young, he cavorts in the garden, running round in circles after tasting vegetables. Along the window sills, birds alight. They peer into the shade of the interior. Spiders build their webs in the crevices.
The yard opens to sky. Arching clouds lift up over the borders of this place, and build up moisture made structures that catch our gaze. A bird startles and flies, and his flight carries your attention up toward these mountainous clouds as to another world.
Yet it’s my backyard, and these clouds live above it, part of the real estate. When I sell this house someday, I will tell them: it comes with these magnificent clouds and we won’t even charge you extra.
A giddy sensation of photons. The clouds are soft. Variations of white, shades and regions of white. Edges that blend into cyan sky, edges rimmed in pale pearl blue-grey or edges of fine, filtered, pale spun gold. Around the clouds blueness of blue — a theatre of air, a bowl of quickening molecules, like beads of life rounding, spinning out time, thought, creation, presence, sentience — rolling and rolling round the rims of the bowl.
Sentences. The clouds float across the regions of airy blue like words on a bright living page, a god vocabulary, scrambling and unscrambling in grammar that resists translation.
One looks and then you step into the sky. You thought walk yourself up there. Not with feet, but with imaginating.
It was totally silent and joyful. I was alone, but not lonely. My whole self filled the sky, yet I was small. Quite small, like a bird, I was there, but I was not weighed by things as on earth. I was air, too.
Fluid. Look and delight.
When I was eight, we celebrated my birthday. I was the hero. My friends laughed and smiled, squeeled and clapped their hands. At my party we ate ice cream and cake. Our jaunty cardboard party hats shimmered like rainbows this way and that with our waving our heads. I feel the band under my chin. My cake was white with pink and blue swirls of icing. Sweet pink roses and rich pale green leaves. Doric swirls and corinthian cake architecture of white on white. The spoons of brilliant pink plastic! The spoons were half the size of real spoons as we were half the size of real people. Decorated paper napkins. A flat horizon stretching along the broad expanse of the table. Happy children, we!
Light came streaming through the windows. The air filled with our laughter. We ate cake and ice creams and filled the room with bright noise and child light.
My cake — oh, my cake like clouds. We ate the sweet clouds.
Now this sky of endless blue from horizon to zenith and back — and around and the air is an upside down dish filled with sweet clouds.
You all know that the clouds will soon probably swim and turn into fish.
Look down. The air is filled with fish that fly through the water on their strong wings, pushing themselves through the denser molecules with strong muscles. I thought maybe I was painting fish, but they were perhaps a flock of birds instead? Or does it matter? Fish or fowl?
No. Listen to reason.
Calm yourself. These are clouds. Look they are quite clearly, quite comfortingly bright white soft clouds, air dust, spun thought, whisps, whisps ….
Did you forget something?
God’s thoughts are not your thoughts. And his ways are not your ways, says the Lord.
Look. Some of God’s thoughts are bright molecular air with spaces between the spaces.