books, mountains and the unfailing french press.

((((((((((reading a good book has this impressive ability to make one softer and more alert.

similar to the after affects of just having summited an east coast mountain.)))))))))))




things recently noted or passed through the cerebral cortex:

yesterday I met with an acquaintance of mine at La Colombe (the cafe of hours long discourse as it produces only the best) I wouldn't quite call her an acquaintance, but a rare individual with whom I can meet and sit after not seeing for six months and delve into the most depth of analysis. She shared with me a story of a trip upon which she had gone. A trip that I took three years ago. Most of the story was curdled up around a particular person and the effect this person had on her throughout her travels. We discussed the power of strange connection with another. The kind that stems from an unexplicable source. As if there is a direct pathway between two, yes, I will say it, souls that arches upward and over the constructs of space and time. We disliked having to admit the possibility of other lives, other means of having connected.

We discussed how these connections have no reason attached to them. That is, no reason from the functioning of the current worldy ebb and flow. Rather, the reason has some foreign taste to it, and yet an all too familiar ring. Like that place, the one you've never been to before. That person, whom you've seemingly known them for a very long time has just entered the room.

Intuitively, we know these people. Yet, as our intuition becomes clouded, these ethereal connections don't have the ability to be cultivated. Or they are temporary and fleeting. Either way, they do not fit in with the individualized strain of survival via Western world.

All of this may seem a bit hookey. As I write it out, I feel it hookey too. And yet, there have been times that I have known things as if they were codes in my DNA. About a person, about a place, and I think there's power to it. A power that I have very little courage to explore, and for that matter even taste. I've been hurt by this power, once, twice, maybe more, because it is not well received and sometimes, in order to survive, I need to ignore it. Or think I need to ignore it.

but there it is, in literature, stories, those who not only entertained this power, but were awash in it. I'm drawn to these stories, I'm drawn to these characters. I'm drawn to the few people I meet who seem to have embellished this power and made it their very nourishment and survival.




this may or may not make sense.


on a more level headed note-

focus is achieved through focus

I hate most of the clothes in my closet

and

NEED A HAIRCUT.




GOODBYE.