the learning laboratory at the end of the universe...
Morning. Like all others. Awake at four. I read the news. I drink my coffee. I talk to you, my readers.
How do I make it different?
By making it the same.
I will write for a few hours, walk, drink coffee in a sidewalk caf�. I will watch the people in the market square and invent their lives, making notes in a leather bound notebook. I will read. Then walk again. I will eat, visit my wood, pick up a carving knife or a chisel and transform the wood from virtual reality to something you may enjoy seeing. When my eyes and hands respond no more, I will walk again, longer, perhaps in a wood or through a field. I will sit again in a caf� and watch and dream. And then I’ll cook pasta or pizza or make a pot of vegetable stew or may even meat. A little housework, an email check and a few steps across the parking lot for cappuccino and maybe apfel scholer or a false beer. An hour spent in idle conversation: this one’s cancer, that one’s divorce; new cars or bicycles to be reviewed and praised. An hour spent communing with my only communicants. The people of the night caf�. It is early still, so I write or read or carve, then eat some nuts and sweets and try to sleep, and try to dream.
My thinking is influenced by my birth as a Catholic. Not all of it is bad. I stopped attending rituals when they were make accessible through the use of the lingua franca and stopped believing when I began to study world religions. I am partial to Zen. I am peaceful and it helps me stay there. When I sit, I forgive myself for all of the women, all of the beer, and I gain my spirit back. I am also fond of symbolism. Icons, calligraphy, sumi, pictures, languages. The representation of another’s reality reforms my own, enriches it, gives it new directions in which to seek knowledge.
Women, most of those I have known, say I think too much. Men say I am odd. The women understand. It is no affectation that I speak a random sentence on the origins of the one god or the potential of well-crafted paragraph. These things live in me, as do the sadness of a woman gone, the pain of rejection, the amplitude of reflection. There are also joys, such as my children and my grandson, the sunrise and sunset, the architecture of the European village. I am balanced calmly and firmly between light and dark. Neither manic nor depressive I carry on my mission of discovering what it is I’m meant for. If I find it before I die, I will write it here and share it with you.
copyright 2007-2013: john zavacki (the elder)