The Clock Ticks

We had one of those English moors mists this morning – if England has moors. Maybe that’s only Scotland. Anyway, it’s what you’d picture an English misty morning to be like, and it lasted longer than usual.

We sent The Bear out the door with a reserve stash of peanut butter in case Joe couldn’t meet him for lunch in Clayton. He will be moving to another cubicle soon, with the rest of his department, to “induce productivity”. I guess lowering everyone’s cubicle wall by two feet makes the employees feel uncomfortable enough to skip their 23rd round of Solitaire for the afternoon.

So before the oatmeal and tea had been entirely consumed, Puck’s fingernails – several of them – were completely black. Yes, he had gotten a little carried away with the Sharpie when I wasn’t watching. And… now he knows.

After he beat me in four straight games of Candyland for the morning hiatus, Puck managed to spill about a half-gallon of apple cider across the mopey gray countertop into the utensil drawer. I often don’t ask “how”.

There’s some strange combination of Muse’s 80’s “Madness” and the ice cream truck music box jingles that sets an odd stage for a gray afternoon. And with Puck yelling from the shower an endless jabber of “Why! Why! Why! Why! Why!” – showers make him happy – it’s never too quiet around here.

Fat fish sandwiches with parmesan and mozzarella.

And a little mayo.

I was stuffed.

Thought of the Day

I speculate similarly with the idea of scribes and story-tellers from ancient eras. But I think the concept of fewer distractions applies to recent centuries also.

Take the early isolated pioneers for instance. Maybe they just didn’t have enough to think about. Maybe they didn’t realize the overwhelming expanse of information available to think about. They didn’t know what Moroccan music sounded like, what Thai food tasted like, what a giraffe really looked like, what acrylic paint smelled like, what velvet felt like [probably]. They didn’t have so many diverse… diversions.

Maybe it wasn’t a “thinking” place. Not that kind of thinking place anyway. Maybe they felt closer to God, and thought in ways a thousand times more deeply and often than the modern pioneer in technology, space, or oceanography… or Vernian explorer [that’s my own idea]. I imagine they could have written books while planting sweet potatoes… or whatever. There was a lot of repetitive, habitual process to farming the plains, I would think. So maybe while kneading biscuits, milking cows, or watching a perfect sky of stars, they were more spiritually aware than most of us.

Or maybe their minds were so boxed in by the lack of consistent stimuli, that they couldn’t push out of it for their whole lives. Either way – too much “think” or too little – I assume the quiet country of a place where you could feel very alone would provide an interesting foundation for at least the possibility of clear head and deep thought. The fewer the distractions, the calmer the mind.

At least, in my opinion.

I really shouldn’t need to scratch in that disclaimer anymore.

I think it’s pretty obvious.