Thank You Note Chowder

 (Continuing)

"Words are partly thoughts, but mostly their music, deep down. Thinking itself is, perhaps, orchestral, the mind conducting the world. Conducting it, constructing it, I sense this instinctively. There is no language for this, not then, not even now, this inner glide, articulation of the wordless, plotless truth of existence. Life is not made up of stories, much as I adore them; Charlotte, Heidi, Caddie Woodlawn. Really, life is – this. It's a float, my body a cloud drifting along, effortless but aware. Drifting over the world, seeing, passing along."

From THE ART OF THE WASTED DAY, by Patricia Hampl

Thank you dear friend, for helping me to see – I promise to pass "it" along. Many Blessings

He finished the short note to the artist friend who'd gifted him with the poppy art and, let's just say it, all the dreams and whatever they meant and were still "doing" to him as memories returned and receded. 

He sealed the envelope and put it in his suit coat pocket to drop off later at the blue box just outside the coffee shop where today they were featuring split pea soup and chicken chowder and the usual French onion. Pastrami sandwiches and another fancy avocado toasts: they all sounded good so he'd planned to grab a few things on his way home from the route.

Lately the newspaper route had taken him over into the more suburban area not too far from the apartment, about two and half miles with a bicycle didn't feel like anything really. He threw papers onto porches one after the other and watched his breath steam out in front of him, letting the bicycle coax its way along the block and into sunrise just toward the end of the route which circled him back to the start just perfectly day after day.

I love this job Zoe, he'd pat her on the head during his midday siesta at the apartment and share how the morning route felt today.

Little windy but warm and balmy even. I could smell the soil and there were a few worms wiggling out of the ground.

He put his headphones on, plopped down in his Irving Leather Armchair, a fine Stetson Chestnut trimmed with bronze nail heads at its edges. It was a chair that appeared to be bursting yet felt as soft as a feather when one sat down. He needed some recharge time. It was a perfect place to chill and he played at volume 7, some old familiar Kansas.

Soon he sailed along on the violin and all that his heart could do was conduct and glide his arms about on the breeze of the sonorous current, drifting over the world, following the now even right now articulation of the orchestral and plotless life of existence.

It was adventure.

And was he gassy from that chowder. Just seeing, passing along.