A Spectacle We Call A Day

2024.05.08

Good morning that great place

When your dog wakes you and the problems of other people that aren't problems only solutions, greet you, and the Sun's just making his play at the horizon, and the ands of the world start to line up and make play for your peace of mind, and, and, and, and …

Stop. Take a breath on purpose. Re-center yourself. And do the day centered. Around your one dream of yourself.

Because the self, your-self, matters.

Why else would you be here if not to matter?

No one else is you. No one else can be you.

Not a great actor, not some Robo-AI monstrosity-masterpiece-of-micro-magnetic-framework.

You.

Here this You is doing his morning do: Dreams, the old-fashioned close your eyes see you in the morning type, to type to other Yous, maybe you, this morning.

The rhythms of the world change based on the drum work of the instruments around.

What best suits the mood and pitch of each moment brings different instrumentation to meet the charge.

A gong takes over the orchestra. A piano can fit just about anywhere. The voice, silent or center stage, can never be removed.

We always must be saying something.

Every breath a story, every dream a song sung somewhere. Life is the echo back of our dreams.

Snow globes shook, vibrations from a guitar string strummed, drum taps, the twang the flip back motion of each fishing pole makes to snap the cast out to sea, or lake, or river, the idle engines of cars in a traffic jam, your breath.  

These fingertips on these keys.

Your breath. Your breath. Your breath.

Sunrise is to my front, blocked by rooms of memories. Casting its lasting shadow of light on the background where a dog is set to chase robins, and squirrels, and maybe a groundhog, chipmunk or rabbit away in its wake of light, as night takes its slow return home, in a spectacle we call a day.

S.J. Wynn
+he Ghos+