The Observer Observed |
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My thoughts have been everywhere this morning: waterfalls, mountains, vineyard rows, barns, cemeteries, casinos, railroad crossings, fields, birds, clouds, stacks of firewood, country roads, cool mornings and the first day of school, old desk drawers full of papers, mirrors on the wall, oak trees, city sidewalks, fig jam, roosters crowing and hens scratching in the yard, hands, dusty beetles, stop signs, neighbors, rain, unanswered telephones, empty boats rocking on the water, lemon groves, faulty wiring, mothballs, old worn out coats, church bells, the last rites, cable cars, insurance claims, laughter, and even thoughts themselves and the very thinking of them, as well as the miraculous observation of their rise and fall, and of the observer itself, the observer in the act of observing, the observer observed ad infinitum, each in turn ridiculed and amused, certain and torn, satisfied and overwhelmed, a candle that steadily burns, that shines its light in the name of stars, that knows not when its flame goes out and imagines its eternal presence, that is the light, that is the world, that is the moment as it was accidentally conceived, blessed, embraced, and poignantly misunderstood, that is forever blind and extravagant in its grace, that follows the order set down, that is first, last, and always alone, that is identical in its need, that is no one, that is you, that is me.
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