You know that feeling when you’re out with friends and you’ve had a few and you need to visit the bathroom and you thread the path through the tables like Mick Jagger on stage and you’re conscious of how your feet are gripping the floor and how soon you have to think about turning in order to make that corner and you feel as alive as an Indy 500 driver dodging a pileup and you nod knowingly to a server on the way and you know she had to be thinking how cool is he but you are entirely focused on the mission and you find the room flawlessly and turn the knob on the first try and you’re in and to the appointed spot with an absolute minimum of steps and execute perfectly and you think I know it’s just going to the bathroom but nobody’s ever done it better than I just did and isn’t it really about the present moment and you think I wonder if I can explain this to my friends at the table? Well you can’t.
The world is white and intricate on these morning walks. Beneath the frosted branches, the path down to the river is strewn with gleaming points of red, blue, green, as though the dew has frozen in droplets so tiny that each one can reflect only one color of the spectrum. Frost heaves have ruffled the ground, bringing rocks to the surface, stony buds breaking the earth, betokening some cycle other than the seasons.