the indeterminance of idle moments and the space between God, man, and other men.

Cheevers, Cheevers, Cheevers.

Heaven on the right.

Hell on the left.

Volley.

And thunder.

I occurred to me I had for a few moments, or some indeterminate period of time elsewise, as it were, become lost and given over to whatever.  But then, from outer space, I came back, like the proverbial thing from the sky, and landed hard, my shoulders and back, ankles, stiffened from coarse and unaccustomed use: labor.

It was something of a refreshment of the mind, something of the stirring of the blood and the mixture of oxygen, with the endorphins and the other things spraying about like fountains of wayne, or ray or donna or somebody, spraying and spraying, and the brain lulled through vigorous activity into a kind of At Once awareness, and the period of rest, what the Buddhists call Emptiness, and seek some.

Mark that.

That's emptiness, an idle cessation of stuff, but after the milking and tossing some seed to the chickens.  After even, averting war, but paying for war and all that.  Getting kicked off of Twitter, but then, to roll, to be a rock, and to roll or not roll, 54 dollars a share, and rocket aimed at Palo Alto, all the sandal wearers with Master's Degrees complaining bitterly, gnashing the teeth--

but to not gnash the teeth.

And what beguiles, the odd video clip, and that, the thing lived for, satisfies for a time, but always to have another, to be alive to be "on the wire".

The rest is just waiting.

But in that time, what are you doing?  Does your spirit cry out for more?  Does the idle wheel make thread?  How so does it turn in your own discourse?

Of emptiness, and volleys distant, not near and not particularly fearsome: someone else's problem.  Someone's compunction for mayhem--indeed, professional monsters, butchers to the herd, and all that.  Little more than a game of checkers played on a large scale, and no, it doesn't touch Davenport, Iowa, in their fair realm of decency and common sense.

That person, in that sort of fog, can reach through that cloud of non-substance between himself and God, and with that possibility of catching hold of something more substantive, nothing else will cause us to reach after or jump to other things.

The elapsing of such other skirmishes be then but the time and space between people.  And at some point, there is a reach into the non-substance, and the forgetting, intermentioning, and intermingling, of the Creator and the base creation.

The returning to the Garden, and the very dignity and miracle of creation, something said by so many to be, well, an accident.  I would deter the nature speaks into being no accidents, but only a sort of truth, even if a particularly starfish is missing an arm, or other anamolies of being, that is rings of a sort of natural truth.

And in the idle moment, the loom spinning free, maybe we can feel it, almost like a song, a natural kind of hum or vibrational resonance, the vibration of the universe and the passing of time into and towards eternity.