On this previous Monday I decided to find the inorganic and do a little searching and listening as I had quite a good day selling on the markets of Sunday so I wanted more interesting stuff which I could use to barter in the realm of psychological tendencies at the end of this month. But it's also very much a tuning up exercise as we drive about quietly reviewing swags on the verge and listening for intuitive insights.
Theres a sense of treasure waiting to be found that encourages me to do this, a memory of a future where I have the thing or things at home later and I'm sitting there appreciating the Humanity that made such a thing possible. So while I pass pile after pile of sadness and lack theres usually something telling me that to keep going will eventually unearth vitality and relevance, like a brightness shining just beyond the next hill, or an old song so soft it can hardly be heard.
Eventually I was simply drawn to a meagre pile which just had two small wooden logs which weren't the branching parts so would split quite easily for firewood, well at the least the bottom one was while the top was a wood lathe blank of especially interweaved growth and at this time the old man who'd built the review of no longer wanted came walking up to chat... and chat we did.
I expressed that I'd finally set up a wood lathe and especially like the meditative dimension of having to take time to get what we wanted and this seemed to be the response he was after and he invited me onto his property to see something that might interest me. I've learned that to be invited is always brings a deeper unfolding than asking and that the expression of ones own delights will always yield more than specifically digging through desires that demand quenching.
In a little room off the back of his garage was his wood turning area and my eyes were drawn to a line of old chisels on the bench which were all haphazard and unmatched but what he offered me was a set of unused Marples chisels at a bargain basement price of five bucks each, so forty for the set still in box, and, of course, my response was that that was too cheap and I'd be happy to give him a hundred for them.
For some reason I then mentioned a motorcycle in decrepit condition that I'd seen on the other side of the rubbish territories which had caught my eye as a potential project to keep me in trouble (later in the day I went back as my knocks on the house door had not been answered and my thought was that the owner was at work so an evening inquiry would be more suitable to answers... which it was but this broken motorcycle was a testament, a monument, to Police brutality as the owner stood in the darkened doorway of this old house which had obviously been passed to him by parents now deceased or at least very close to such and that this incident in his past was now his identifying gesture within a world he no longer saw as a place to embrace his courage and determination... sad, and no motorcycle for me... yet, as I did actually leave a note in the mailbox with an offer and my phone number and given such individuals can often get into trouble with forgotten bills then I just may get a call someday) and this too lit up the old fellows eyes with a sparkle of shared inconsistencies and he led me then to the garage under the house and opening to the street.
And such treasures! It seems his own eye was such that the same type of ugly appealed to us both... the type of ugly that was so of it's time that it was passed over so quickly and discarded even quicker that it rarity now is the stuff of legends, legends in the making which are always better than legends kept alive, and so we did the little dances of voice that enamoured us to the other as we passed from cold artifact to even colder artifact, going deeper into his cave, and my brain became chained to my heart and laid sticky rubber burnouts across futures even I'm loathe to fill.
I left with a light heart soon after as the old chap was tiring without any promises or commitments and only him telling me to think on it for a while then return.
Then I went back yesterday with my heart in my mouth feeling like I was stomping across the broken glass shards of a dream so I walked especially softly as I asked that I be able to list the things and photograph them. Now two hours hence I go back for my appointment and I feel less inclined to own any of the things, not because they aren't beautiful and wouldn't enjoy their company but because the dream is turning to reality and I remember that such things all to often just become more things.
So my responsibility, if indeed I have one, is to become an agent of sorts... maybe. I'm not altogether sure but uppermost is that this older recipient of dreams still has them even while they may be fading and that those glories demand I walk back into his life with humility and respect. I don't actually know if I'm capable of such and that if I do call him Sir, like all those polite American youngsters do in the movies, would it be empty of validity, would it be a false oath to a fealty I do not feel?
The acquiring of stuff seems almost mote somehow and that the challenge is to create bridges between the few others, maybe even me, who might come into possession of such gold as is on hidden display, and the guardian at the gates so that little is lost of the intangible parts of such concrete depictions. I don't know and may be guilty of adding nobility where it has never resided... or maybe that's what it's actually all about... that nobility is where we put it, despite what it is supposedly represented by.
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