Thursday, December 15, 2016
The Crazy Man Cometh
It was the river that did him in. Always the river, the one running through his dreams, filling the hallways, the living room, submerging his file cabinet, all the precious appliances of his householding tidiness. That river broke into foaming thunder as it washed him downstream, tumbling through the hydraulics, barrel rolls, and bubbling holes. He found that he kept his head above water enough to catch a breath once in a while, but that there was no hope of ever getting back to the way things were. So he stuck his feet out front to push off the incessant series of boulders and laid his back out enough to both stay afloat and to see the stars that shone between overhanging trees. It was the river, rolling with the river, not so much the places, that mattered. Yes, his love wanted more, wanted to know and to hold it all, but it swept through his fingers, all this running water. The facts of things spoke to him: Let it go. Feel it. It's always and forever moving. This was it, he thought, or rather knew, his new home.