Monday, February 22, 2016

A Blank Slate

The day stretches before me, as open and empty as the Bonneville Salt Flats. The white under the morning sun shimmers. I can't turn away from the invitation to gaze at its immensity, its untenanted innocence, the loveliness of its nothing. More than all the scribblings, more than the sum of natterings, more than most beautiful of somethings out there in the libraries, museums, and sacred vaults of human striving, the nothing awakens me to the immediacy of what might happen next. The day doesn't care what I do and howls with laughter that I expect it to smile or frown. The moon chuckles as it slips below the the breast of a ridge to the west. Silly man. Silly man. As if it mattered to me what you wanted. No, the blank slate offers no help, only the suggestion that I might make the most of a beating heart, a drawn breath, a generous mortality.


  1. Replies
    1. Thanks Jillian. It means much to me that this speaks to you. With admiration -- et