An English In Kentucky


















Thursday November 15th 2012    Tim Candler

     This morning was 'cold for November.'  A reading of twenty four degrees Fahrenheit at around  five thirty A.M..  Some of us were able to return to the blanket, where it was possible to either count Inuit blessings, or embark upon one of those tirades that raises blood pressure, sends the mind into downward spiral, where it gives serious consideration to a description of Nirvana as 'blessed release.'   And under such circumstances, I have discovered that a form of 'release' can sometimes be found by permitting imagination a stroll through memories of past places searching for the appropriate burial site.  I stopped by a stream, in a short valley, where once I had seen Dippers.  It thought it remarkably peaceful.

    In the past day or so, while on these cold morning adventures, I have put aside the hoopla of 'dust to dust,' with its self pity and lip curling ceremonies, and I have returned to the more Zoroastrian traditions of leaving the corpse out there somewhere so that soft pawed carnivores and birds of the air might eat well.  Then it occurred to me that this tradition reflects an idleness.  The equivalent to tossing the dead Rabbit into the woods.  And here, I begin to realize, I have no emotional antagonism toward idleness, it seems to me an obvious solution to so many of the issues confronting the species I belong to.  Busyness, I have decided, is the original sin.  And Nirvana is a heavenly capacity to do nothing.  A condition which, when I look around, is one I am very close to achieving.  And here, I can only hope The Artist now that she is incarnated as Grandmother, will agree.

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