Being, and Time and Nothingness
Splash in the sprinklers for the sun shines high in the sky.
The wind shudders the poplar leafs. The kids of the neighborhood
fly around on bikes, on scooters, on skateboards. The Ice
cream truck play it mechanical siren call of relief through sugar.
Adventures of suburbia, the dreams of World War II vets and survivors
of the depression. Now, the grandchildren and great-grandchildren
chart their lives in the pattern of slip and slides, backyard swings sets,
lawns needing mowing and weed and feed once a season. The scorn
of those that live in cites for suburbia is sport and a name tag worn
with pride at dinner parties. The pretense of French Philosophy skimmed
for the names to be spoken with pride and accusations of being so
post-modern and not enough. I have lived my life here in the dreams
of those weary of suffering. Dasin, the whole of life is holsitic and any bit
one can see the whole, even the bit scorn by others. My son plays
in our front lawn. A piece a land that has my name really
adds a dimension to the string theory, curling tight into the structure
of being. Somehow my son stay delighted with life, a better answer
than any over single malt scotch.