It’s been a productive break of sorts – glitches in the mind-space notwithstanding. The bummer was that the smooth flowing stream was interrupted and that always inhibits equanamity. Instant reactions, usually unadvised, can manifest, and with them all the ensuing karmic energies that flow from the action. But then, this type of action and the reflection that ensues could also bring into focus what would otherwise have been taken for inconspicuous incidents or impressions. Incidents and impressions that, in hindsight, amplify what could be significant insights into a character or situation. And so we chalk it up to “just one of those things to be aware of” and go along our way. It takes all kinds!

Java has kept out of this miasma. He has this amazing capacity to sense the futility of actions in a given set of circumstances and has refused to go down that path – although the related obscenities that he utters on occasion are wonderfully descriptive and will surely deserve a prominent space on his return … maybe? Instead, he lights up, turns on the sound and lets the music take us where it will….

It’s a still-life watercolour

Of a now late afternoon

As the sun shines through the curtained lace

And shadows wash the gloom

And we sit and drink our coffee

Couched in our indifference

Like shells upon the shore

You can hear the ocean roar

In the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs

Are the borders of our lives

And you read your Emily Dickinson

And I my Robert Frost

And we mark our place with book-markers

That measure what we’ve lost

Like a poem poorly written

We are verses out of rhythm

Couplets out of rhyme

In syncopated time

Lost in the dangling conversation

And the superficials sighs

Are the borders of our lives

Yes we speak of things that matter

With words that must be said

Can analysis be worthwhile

Is the theatre really dead

And how the room is softly faded

And I only kiss your shadow

I can not feel your hand

You’re a stranger now unto me

Lost in the dangling conversation

And the superficial sighs

Are the borders of our lives

Paul Simon sure knows how to weave a lyric around a tune – or is it the other way around?