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He lives by himself in a house on a lake. It is quiet there. Somehow this place puts all into focus. He sits in a chair by the stove. His wire glasses are laid on the table showing a sad, relaxed, and tired face lined with grey hair that forms a ponytail. We talked; or rather I talked and he listened and he talked and I listened. He had a way of looking at life that showed it's bones. He saw life as a struggle that one can't win at, but only postpone losing. I saw life as a problem that I couldn't solve.
His sitting room had objects about. There were fossils and tools and jigs. Mostly we talked of these.
Lying in the morning sun's radiance. Stretched out in a lethargic pose as the world continues about him; slowly rising with the weight of the world on his every bone. Dragging his frame frame the ground he moves defenselessly. He walks evenly until a movement ahead catches his eye. An explosion of consciousness as the legs catapult him to precise speed. Eyes scan with digital accuracy as the acrobatics of navigation continue to and endless pounce ahead - but - it is just an autumn leaf moving in a stir of air.1976
My stony stare looks out towards the meeting of a rich blue sky and a green meadow. The green that comes only after long rains. The meeting is so stark, so intense, that it fills me with the warm summer air. I am on a hillside off an old country road. A house once stood here, but now all that is left are some lime stone steps covered with soft textured moss. I sit on these stony stairs.