I’m free here at WordPress to stand on my soapbox and rant about this and that. But a couple of weeks ago, I exceeded my cheapskate account’s allotted memory. I can no longer embed videos, nor can I upload photos eye take, such as the serpentine relevant-to-today’s-entry award-winning one in my Android gallery. I think I can copy and paste Wikipedia material though – so that’ll have to do for now.
Perhaps one day eye’ll pay the surcharge and make my latest show ‘n’ tell more visually pleasing. How eye miss those freebie Vox days.
Anyway eye’m re-reading Leaves of Grass on another blazingly glorious summer’s day here at Shiga Beach. Temperate Shiga becomes tropical for six weeks or so this time of year. You feel like you’re in Southeast Asia or somewhere else in the tropics proper. Glassy azure water reminds one of the face one had (and still has but has forgotten) before sliding into this world of tears.
If only more suicidal types got outdoors under heaven on days like this they would get a free cosmic color therapy session. Nature’s blues, greens, creams, plus the infinite sky reconfigure you so that you can get a taste of the central bliss of existence. So what need is there for suicide and homicide-inducing SSRIs?
In the now calm water a large lake bass is happy there are no speargun-toting Brazilians in sight. Down the way children’s voices dance with the lake and that archetypal sound of Japanese summers, The Cicada Symphony Orchestra, conducted by the Archmason performs.
Whitman describes the Kosmic Christ; his ecstatic Advaitist Self in everything “out there” and “in here”.
I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s-self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own funeral, dressed in
Lying belly down on Bali-made sarong, head north, feet south, eye turn towards the lake and out of the water pops Walt Whitman – the Japanese rat snake –
After a million two-hundred thousand visits to this or that beach it was the first time a snake came outta the water and greeted me. Eye was alarmed at first but realized it was Walt, an American I actually like.
A few leaves later in Grass –
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass;
I find letters from God dropped in the street, and every one is signed by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that others will punctually come for-
ever and ever.
And as to you death, and you bitter hug of mortality . . . . it is idle to try to alarm
If all is One, where are life and death?
Thank you Walt Whitman.