Walden On Wheels: Two. Less Pant, More Pocket

Walden On Wheels: Two. Less Pant, More Pocket

WOW: the Walden On Wheels project

TWO.

Things find themselves where they find themselves, despite the indulgences of patricians and the toils of serfs. There is, in the end, only the midnight dung of our awakened minds to give us pause from this hiccup-brief refrain of being, and then- for the broken infraction of a moment- there is also this- the blesséd remembering. That in the beginning- and in the beginning of beginnings in equal measure- great swirls of silence swaddled us in the softest cotton bindings and coo’d us off into charades of sleep. Let us never forget, we were wanted- for we exist. However we arrived here and however long we remain, billions of years have conspired on our behalf and culminated in the rich orchestration of our sordid skins. We have however many more breaths to fulfill. We are until we are no longer, suns. 

What chance is there that dawn and dusk are born of the same disease, propelled by the insatiable instinct to control and be controlled, to live and to die with every last sustaining breath? That these two poles live constantly within us each and extrapolate out into the world in infinite variety- if only for us to bear witness to our own estranged faces, if only to recognize the same petrified confusion in the eyes of another- it is this and nothing more that lends sense to the great riddle. However mysterious, however remote and mercurial is our incandescent passage, may it blaze long enough to have at least glimpsed the faint, sanguine flush adorning nascent horizons and nuzzled sweetly up against the very edge of its own untimely demise.

  For stars align and then untangle, the cosmos itself a caldron of spontaneous combustion. Amidst the cricket-loud diplomacy of night, one stares up to the rooftop rodeo of asteroids to wonder sundry thoughts, existential concerns that seem to relax in the broad sweep of darkness. I try to wrap cerebral fingers around this thing called life and look down to find my hands clutching. The word aparigraha rings inside my head like a Chinese gong and continues clanging like a cow bell dangling haphazardly from the neck of a frolicking beast. Non-grasping. The antithesis of parigraha, the desire for having or obtaining objects. These grasping, white knuckles of mine hamper me, expose my reticence. Even the clothes I wear by definition carry more. Cargo shorts. Yet they also reflect an uncomfortable ambiguity, an uncertainty built into the fabric. I want to carry more with less. Less pant, more pocket. How western of me, to want it both ways. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *