Souls

I hate communicating with people. Largely because I’m the sort of insular rat who only communicates with people he feels very comfortable communicating with. So, when things go strange, it’s an earthquake. And I’m usually baffled – which is a sign that it was quite likely my fault.

(Or that it’s a mistake to think I’m a comfort zone for them too, or as much of one.)

***

I’m going to go slow talking about any Big Think in here. I don’t know whether I’m daunted by the things I’ve already done, or whether… there’s a sense of tremendous burden that had grown up, that still haunts me a little when I think of Open Diary. A neurotic sense, yes, probably, but it’s a barrier between me and the Big Happiness of writing. So far.

As I type I daydream quiet careful rowboat-navigating between icebergs with deep blue fires at their hearts.

***

I like found rocks.

Each one looks like a human personality might look to some Higher Being in some other set of dimensions. Unique – beautiful – and largely uninterpretable, even though you can see it quite clearly with your Higher Being eyes. I have always thought that. I have always looked at these rocks as if they could be glyphs of something extraordinary.

The naturally smoothed or polished faces, when there are any, let you see the individual strangenesses of the stone’s color most clearly. But I tried a little rock-polishing machine once, and it was a disaster – the rock became a polished beauty with all of the personality removed, all the knurls and roughnesses and inflections of slope gone – from soul to mannequin. They have to be found rocks, encountered rocks.

Hello.

(Oh, you don’t have to understand. But I find it hard to imagine not thinking like this as I noodle around a place, stooping and picking things up.)