Thoughts on the way home.

Warmed by the seat of my car. The date julip drink in my tummy. Grounded by the sound of my wiped blades I started the pod cast again.
An Alan Ginsberg phrase rolled over me like disappearing shade in the 3 o’clock sun. “The dearness of the vanishing moment”
“The dearness of the vanishing moment”
I rewound and played it again and again.
Watching between beat of the wipe blades all of the vanishing moments of the night.
Stopped at a red light. Hum of perfection in its imperfection stepped off the bus.
Elderly woman. Bent over by life. Fighting against gravity by shear will and a four footed silver cane. Black rubber boots that had trouble finding the ground with certainty. Gray puffy overcoat that nearly swallowed her whole. Nearly… The gray and black did not consume all of her. Hot pink volour pants were neatly tucked into those boots. And a beautiful red and white Santa hat topped it all off.
“The dearness of the vanishing moment” was my mantra as she labored passed my car. Her strides were so unsure. So unstable. The cacophony of motion was hard to watch. For a moment I thought Gravity was going to win this one. But with a brief pause…balance was regained.
“The dearness of the vanishing moment”
In the crazy clothes that we cover ourselves with. We walk. Never truly certain. Always on uneven ground. But we continue to walk. Because it the crazy uncertainty that actually keeps us balanced.

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