Perhaps applause was a noisy yes to the foregoing, but sometime we were conditioned. We had to applaud. Tao calls supreme happiness Wu-Wei: to do nothing. In the presence of beauty our pleasure and acceptance continues by doing nothing. Instead, when the music concludes we are required to clap, to interrupt happiness, our wonder at the indescribable sounds, with inane slapping together of our bare palms, the louder the more appreciative. It is a foolish coda to genuine epiphany of soul. Our Wu-Wei is ruined by thunderous ovation. After which, we collect our things and exit into the July night.
Sunday, 22 July 2018
I wake from a dream of factories and freeways, the room a quiet reassuring every sense, where torso turns between sheets. I remember being asleep, unlike adamant clock and outlined lamp. Where curtain inches apart garden’s moonlight is silent forms: the seed that is now it’s tree, fence not there by accident, cold Warringal hillside. I hear the cat breathing through her nose, the clunk of what could be a possum on a neighbour’s roof. Tipped-sideways thoughts of loss combine for attention with familiar desires. I read a novel of myself without turning on the light, here July, gone tomorrow.
Saturday, 21 July 2018
The opposable digits are, I suppose, amongst our oldest friends. Thumbs-up, thumbs-down, we’ve been puppeteers of our thoughts since time immemorial. Handy to know. Even Facebook friends tap thumbs-up, albeit with their index, registering words with no words. Somewhere along the way we let go of our grip. About the time we developed rules of thumb. Historians doubt if Big July fed them to the lions with thumbs-down. Rulers are trained out of twiddling. A pianist who is all thumbs will hold on to the day job. Yet they’re versatile widgets in the beautiful balancing act called the human body.