This morning, the light, again.

I sat and watched the gray until it turned to gold. The last two days are the closest I've come to living in vision since many, many years ago, in the 60s, when vision came cheap...still...three sublime moments remain from those hectic days, for they made me see and feel the world imperishably.  

For the last two mornings the light has answered questions I didn't know that I was asking, questions that came to me once the doors of perception were thrown open all that time ago. The first time I managed to get to a typewriter and type these words: "It's like opening a door and hearing Dionysus scream."
I was not afraid.  The second time I heard an oak leaf pinwheeling in the wind, each of its points scraping the pavement, the volume of the world turned up high. The final time I was on a blazingly  hot South Jersey beach in August when I looked into a marigold and understood, with every fiber of my life, why it is one gives a flower to a guru.  I don't mean to be opaque...or moony--in fact, a funny parody of the moment bubbles up to mind from the film version of A Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Universe. But...what happened did, in fact, occur.

Eternity in a grain of sand on the Jersey shore.

Many years ago.

The last two mornings...I'm sure it's because the winter has felt so long, the gray omnipresent, sight--and all that sight means--occluded; the last two mornings, when the gold was released and ignited the trees, have reopened the doors. 
Allan DiBiase
3/24/2013 03:21:52 am

Today I entered a small clearing in the woods. It seemed to gather the available light.

Later a strong gust of wind swept down from the Notch and I heard a tree snap somewhere on Dinsmore Mt. Quite like a gunshot.

I came upon John's abandoned house littered with things he brought home from the town dump.

I saw the mountains light up with the morning sun.

The ducks flew from their lagoon on Montgomery Brook.

I met a man getting ready to head out on his snowmobile. He was smoking a stubby, fat cigar. He asked "How's the snow?"

It was a day like any other except I was there.


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