2001-01-14 - 22:18 MST

January 14, 2001

Ephemera

Collecting my nomadic thoughts. Finding one here, one there, some are out in the open, others are tucked in the crevices of my id and others are swiftly flying about. As I pluck one from its place it is obviously dirty, I quickly dust it off and hope no one has sensed that dirty thought. I thought that the not nice ones were hidden in my subconscious, forgetting that the thought of a woman occurs to an old man about every fifteen minutes, sometimes oftener. Not even a thoughtful man can be successful in keeping everything under control, always.

There is a pretty one, built of irridescent, shifting, pretty words, just waiting to be arranged into a poem of love or hymn of praise. There is one of roiling clouds riven with lightening, I guess because Bush appears to be on the verge of trying to reverse everything done by his predecessor. Ha, won't work in the Lewinsky case.

There is one of a pretty blue emitting light, classical music, serenly floating along in a meandering path, sifting down happiness in its course. There is one covered with straight brows, dealing with the serious "establishent" problems of every day life and work.

Funny thing, the good, peaceful, pretty thoughts seem to be crowding the unpleasant ones back into the subconscious. Yet the ones in retreat are snickering as they go, they know that when sleep overtakes me they will roar out and rule my dreams.

When I awake and shake the dust of the nightly phantasmagoria of bad thoughts from my head, and do a cup of coffee and think seriously about breakfast the good thoughts will begin, working diligently to crowd the bad thoughts back underground or at least out of sight and under the threat of total purity they become quiet, just a wee bit.

Once in awhile the thoughts of rage emerge, ricocheting wall to wall sending out the shrill, squealing noise because of my minds loss of attention. At these times I must don my armour, grasp my sword of control and drive thoughts back down where they belong, before the good, gentle thoughts dare emerge from frightened hiding places.

As a collector showing a prize, this then is my Ephemera . . . . . . .

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