There’s this point where all of the grey and all of the logic and reason you carry around like an infant in your arms dissolves into hysterical hyperbole, and in the electric-shock of the superlative, you suddenly understand that you’ve been panning for fool’s gold all along.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, Dickens reminds us. Le mieux. Le pire. But we are ankle-deep in Yosemite creekbed, not slipping our heels against London cobblestone — the sunlight fliters through here so honestly, lighting the barely-worn path which has both redwood sorrel and poison oak.
We look for new houses, panning the listings for somewhere to kick up our dusty feet, and again, again, again, we wonder what home is supposed to mean for someone who has never had one before. Our souls are out in the Oregon cold, feeling the rain soften our cardboard box houses. We droop. We search for dry stoops. We pray that the owners of the awnings won’t wake up to the sensor lighting which screams our presence. We cannot sneak any more. We are found. The dog howls. Dogs like you. You wonder why it howls now. Are you a dog, too? Maybe this is the real question.
The speakers in my car are being finicky. Have I ruined them? Is this my punishment for always trying to play the music too loud? Is my entire life is just a series of incidents with the volume turned too high? Isn’t this better than the silence? Isn’t anything better than that?
At least there are still small things crawling beneath the surface of the grass, and if those small things can navigate roots and breathe the tiny pockets of oxygen, then anything is still possible. Sometimes I like to think about how long it takes to weave a spiderweb, and if occasionally a spider will give up, maybe have a midlife crisis and decide to go sleep in the folds of new spring petals and chew thoughtfully upon the salty remains of some small thing instead. This sounds fine to me. It’s all very small and fine.