Gazing pensively out the window, a sun-dappled morning in the spring, shadows of new leaves spread generously… Krusty has a Deep Thought.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever hit anybody—“
I stare at him incredulously. His shoulders are three times the width of mine.
Falstaff, strongly reminiscent, a big character, roaring with passion and life-be-damned enthusiasm for any number of colorful chemicals, a man pigmented by the hues of his fierce appetite for such things.
-- So what, are you packing that thing?
-- I found something.
-- What’s the story with the heat in this house? It’s roasting in my room.
-- We made some nachos. Knock yourself out.
What did the magic number mean, we only smoked twice a day, if we were awake in the middle of the night? No, there was a different stripe of ideology to resist. You never wanted to hear about a crystal again as long as you lived. Remembering the Drainbow.
-- It’s about the comfortability.
I remembered in time not to cover myself. I had no need of self-protection, any thought of vulnerability was an illusion. I am not a hijabia. So, I understood, you stand where you know you are right, and you don’t give an inch. However, Real Life may not call for such a combative outlook at every moment, and this may alienate fragile people. Besides, when you do give your inch and feel bad about it, you must have some capacity for self-apology or some such. Because, yes, you will sustain through this moment, and you should have enough room for yourself the next day. Embarrassing as it is to express. But I will be back on that couch at some point. Lord, you can see that it’s true…
I am so tired.
Why do you say you left your heart there?
Truth seemed to be clearer there. It was closer to the Source.
What do you mean by that?
It seemed that there was less fragmentation between the Source from which all things originate and their eventual destination in the sand. The things which were good were extraordinarily so, the tastes, aromas, appearances of the place would sear themselves on your experience. The honey was of some transcendent substance, a smear of simple magic collected safely in a small glass jar, provided in accommodation with cakes for breakfast.
The word of the evening will be reification. By this the process of distinction is highlighted; the transiently, vague border separating the belief from the superstition is made distinct. So we abandon our comfortable wishes, we cease our stubborn disregard of what is plainly incontrovertible, and we gather familiar stones and make a fire pit.
Repetition of closely held values is typical; in case there was any doubt. It’s all about the comfortability.