‘Butterfly’ which evokes neither butter nor fly; reminder to look up etymology of that, nestled in complex structure of plant and shadow at the outskirts of the unfenced yard. In the moment that I see and pass it, two strides, it spreads out its wings then folds them back.
Knees and the idea of participating in social media: these “wings of thought on the sides of the thorax of a different thought”, that I didn’t get enough sleep last night. (Such “mental insects” I think to call them, but plankton is more like, food for “the whales of thought.”) (planktic or planktonic is the adjective for plankton.) Dream that the living and dining area at home have several large stainless steel bowls full of sliced oranges. Dream that a high-star general is testifying before Congress that a certain horse can be safely transferred home from Europe. (Perhaps my mind had meant to dream “a certain force“. It may also have meant a house.)
Had woken up remembering an incident, from decades ago, in which I’d been dishonest. Next the thought occurred that we were here to strive for God’s perfection — and why didn’t I think of that more often? (Because I didn’t go to church.) Next the thought occurred that it was better to suffer wrong than to do wrong — and why didn’t I think of that more often? (Would say it was because I didn’t read Plato that much, but I actually did read Plato kind of a lot.) Why didn’t I think that what I thought and perceived was what God thought and perceived or that I and others had immortal natures?
About to cross Walter Reed to pick up a few articles at the Harris Teeter, inadvertently kicked a travel-sized tooth brush from the curbside into the curb itself with its rainwater, where it half floated, the bristles at the head splayed out with use but not discolored.
Strong sun after a rain, humidity, sunlight on the full stream; the vigorous but not torrential ripples of the creek as it flexes between the rocks (the rocks are its muscles, the banks are what it hefts, lifts; the trash and pollution is the grime it collects as it works out, its dirty shirt, litter like a sweat-filled towel on its banks.) There is an actual old shirt and landscaping glove on the rocks here.
(What was beside the crushed ribbed plastic water bottle on the sidewalk?) Two twigs. (Describe the juxtaposition of the twigs.) The blond smooth one was propped upon the dark rough one. (We were just kidding about that but) (…but were you made to think anything about this?) No I was thinking of other things at the time, the most unusual of which was of Satan’s tempting of Jesus in the desert (Huh…?) how Satan had offered Jesus all the kingdoms of earth (And…?) how did one stand with respect to that offer? Did one choose as Jesus had chosen, or did one choose as Satan had tempted, and did one act like a person who’d made that decision, or did one act like someone who’d made the opposite decision? (And…? Conclusion..?) and concluded I was a robot, in which it was difficult to locate an identity capable of making an authentic decision of any kind (Where was I?) Maybe in writing, maybe much later.
Mentally ill woman in Shirlington, backpack, shouts angrily paranoid but as it were well-thought out things at people she comes across. Today talking about how we were all “time-stamped.” She yells really loudly. First came across her around Glebe, Walter Reed soon after Pupatella had opened up. “Fuck you, Pupatella!” she had said repeatedly among some other things I didn’t get at the time.
.i`` * ^ / . . . . . ` `~ 