Rendered Fat Content


" … because I'm already there."

A velvet curtain covered the windows overnight, so thin and permeable that the light breeze could squeeze right through its intricate weave. Morning light slipped through, too, as if the curtain's velvet has expanded to texturize the entire atmosphere. The sunrise screamed through the muffling haze that this would become one of the hotter days, but then, before the paper came, before I could rouse my upside-down American flag on it's stand, the land reclined in perfect ambience. Yesterday's extremes seemed at that early hour a bad dream, though even those extremes hardly blunted my seasonal enthusiasm. We wait through nine or ten months of disparagement for mornings just like this one, mornings which seem to last forever before seeming simply fleeting.

The flower garden's finally as fine as it's going to get, with experiment and old reliable doing their best to please.
It's too late in the season now to start all over again. I must befriend whatever I managed to produce. The yard's my fate now, and I'm delighted to accept it. I would probably choose to do about a quarter of it all over again, but change comes begrudgingly here, a rough-fought inch at a time, and were it not for the unlikely and synchronicity, would never amount to any change at all. Entropy rightfully rules here, as everywhere, most of every year. By mid-summer, even entropy's taken a well-deserved break from her ceaseless undermining.

The rhubarb behind it's tall protective fence has shown herself to be more than satisfied, this year without the persistent pruning nibbles of the bastard deer and her offspring, who even munch the spiky gooseberry shrubbery, thorns and all; their appetites appall me. The wine box planters, sullen and unpromising since their seeds sprouted, finally found their flowers, short-lived little poppies soon to be in profusion now. How such an unlikely crop has come to the top of its purpose so quickly reassures me that perhaps even I might still have a peak experience or two remaining unmanifested within me. I found a small Agaric Prince mushroom in what passes for our front lawn this morning while watering.

This might just be that morning when I was intended to rise up singing, spread my wings, and take to the sky, as Ira Gershwin proposed in Porgy and Bess. The velvet air seems both light and substantial enough to support any ascension today. I really could fly, fly away, but where could I possibly go to improve upon where I find myself now? The very real possibility of liberation seems to arrive concurrently with a sudden and surprising satisfaction with where I already am. Damn, but I hate it when that happens, except I really don't. This morning, SumMorning, rewards my many bent mornings spent failing to tele transport myself somewhere else. This morning, I don't even need tele transportation to get anywhere worth going because I'm already there. Already here.

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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