Saturday morning I glanced at the time on the microwave, 10:07, and I knew in my heart that if there were 138 hours in this Saturday it would not nearly be enough time to do all the things calling me, invitations for which I had serious emotional devotions. Stuff I really, really wanted to do. Including relatively brief periods of heavy goofing off, which weren’t so brief after all.
I thought of my life as unknowable, out there on the porch with three of the five books I have going, nevermind the scads of Chan Koan literature piled in piles on the small blue fetched-off-a-sidewalk table beside the recliner. Even there – with coffee, with Morning Pages, with last night’s box scores and the endless dreaming for a girl I haven’t met – I can’t say how, as well as who, I am. Through the looking glass of I do not am.
Last weekend a long distance friend called from Massachusetts to let me know my sponsor had died. He from ‘those meetings.’ I felt some of the breath leave my already all-alone self. Further emptiness. The planet sighed.Then, just Friday, one of my subscribers here sent me $50, she said, without speaking, so as to keep on keeping on. Right there, a bit less broke, blood tests all to the good, just another comic superhero – Iron Elder.
A ratatouille.
from a mountain bench 
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