purity of fire

a beautiful rain gently falls from outside of my window. This is one of my favorite types of rain– though when I use the term “favorite” I instantly realize how many others are “favorites”– when the sky is a grey painting, a water color where the artist has used too much water and the scenery seems to slide down the page. The tree limbs are heavy with moisture, the moss are fat and puffy. I have nearly completed my latest Drizzt book, The Starless Night, and I am not disappointed in the slightest. Yet the rain gave me pause in my reading, and grabbing a bowl of cottage cheese (low fat… and I do not enjoy eating the stuff but the quality protein is superb) and sliced green apples I soak in the ambience of the rain as though I too were a green patch of moss.

My thoughts turn briefly toward work. I have placed an ad in the local Weekly newspaper and when I gave the news to the owner I did not miss the surprise in his voice. I reminded him that he had wanted an ad run for two weeks, a week off, and then run again in time for loggers. The surprise in his voice was more for the fact that something was done. Having worked with the manager who’s place I’ve taken, I understand the surprise. I must make note also that for loggers convention I might want to run some radio ads, better start to work on this now.

I also think of my new bartender. She is working out quite well, is very receptive, and is very young and… what is the word… malleable? There are things going on in her now that takes time, experience, and guidance to see through. I sense in her the possibility of becoming a truly remarkable person in the years to come, or another incredibly shallow and wasted life. It pains me to see some of my girls waste so much of them selves. As I watch them give away precious consciousness to numbing drugs, I do well to hide the feelings of mixed disgust, pity, and anger. Drug usage is not a moral sin, in the regard that several people make it out to be (just say no, yeah… that is a good deterent- sarcasm), but instead it is seen as a waste to me. I want to grab a girl by the shoulders while she is puffing on her pipe and shake her violently out of the “dulled edges” that they speak of until her head is cleared and shout “why do you drain your mind like this, why do you veil your perception, diminish who you are?” But it isn’t only against the drug usage that I speak of, for when I walk back out into the bar and see guys sitting on the bar, drinking their 10th beer of the night for the 5th night this week. This same retreating that keeps one on a couch, going over and over the channels for hours while complaining that there is nothing on the t.v. to watch.

I am reminded of a bumper sticker that said “I may be fat, but your ugly and I can go on a diet”. This is made all the more sad and pitiful because of the word “can”. You “can” go on a diet, but instead you don’t… so there is a failure. You “are” on a diet.. much different than “can”. If your weight bothers you to where you put this sticker on your car, then do something about it… otherwise you are showing a much sadder mask. If your weight is of no concern to you, then smile and continue being happy and enjoy life… and sing! These people do exist, I’ve met them, but they are rare. Most of the people that claim to feel such aren’t really happy. Whenever I go to the food court (where the dollar cinema is located) at the Gateway Mall I get depressed from watching the people. It seems that nearly everyone is very overweight, sour expressions on their faces, angry and bitter remarks to each other, and no patience with their children. Am I the only one sitting at a table, smiling contently at the sunshine through the window? I try to imagine the lives of some of the very angry people around me, the 300 lb woman with a double cheese chilli dog, three dirty kids yelling back and forth, her clothes in disarray, her husband getting a coke, likewise in same state, sitting down for their meal and acting more like draconian slave masters to each other and the kids. What jobs do they hold? What warmth is there in their house? What dreams do they foster in their hearts? I look around me, looking for someone with a smile, someone with a ray of light in their eyes. The sight is not forthcoming and I begin to feel sorrow, wishing that I could seat someone next to me and show them what seems to me to be the obvious beauty of the rays of the sun flitered through the leaves and the planes of glass.

The rain is coming down harder, the wind has picked up. I love it. My Sarah McLaughlin CD has started on the “hold on” song… it matches the sexual rain outside the door. Pandora, my black, owl-faced cat with very large and very yellow eyes, sits in the doorway of my balcony, taking in the sights and smells of the outside world in her stoic manner. I love my little girl. Ahhhh…. a break in the clouds. The rain still comes down, the wind stilil moves the trees, and the sky is still very grey, but I know that above me somewhere there is break in some of the clouds for there is in this grey world a bit of golden ambiance, a sort of magickal coloring barely perceptable.

My thoughts turn to my new character that is in embryonic form in my mind. The fire priest… ah the philosophy of it is delicious. I recall coming across some metaphysics books from the dark ages in a book store yesterday. My eyes locked onto one book in particular within the first moments of walking down the aisle… the spirituality of fire. I browsed the book, looking for something that I could use with my character, being a priest of fire and all, and I would have bought it but the book, being old and hard cover, was $40. But I’ve got a lot of ideas running through my mind. Soon I’ll not be able to contain it any longer and I’ll begin writing the story of my newest character.

Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason sits on my desk, calling me to crack open its cover. I am greatly interested in reading more of this “combining” of the materialists and idealists. The rust-colored binding of my complete works of Shakespeare likewise call me, as does The Boisterous Sea of Liberty, a collection of writings from throughout our American history. But alas, the time has set for me, the day is ended, and I must ready myself for work.

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