by LJ Frank
I have no expectations. I trek, voyage, drive, walk, explore, sip wine, eat small vegetarian meals, write, edit, and talk to myself mostly when alone. I’m easy but not cheap. And I have found the morning smile is more satisfying than the evening grin.
My consciousness is a puzzling matter. When an unexpected event occurs, my consciousness murmurs as if to awaken my senses. For example there’s the California experience that retains multiple states of consciousness – not terribly unlike other divided states (of geography, mind, and heart).
Like the hot day I was driving an aging, rental Mini-Cooper convertible ten-miles an hour on a semi-paved, truck tire sized pot-holed road somewhere in northern California and realizing a derelict cow was following alongside me. The meaning. None. It happens. I said, “Hi”. The cow moved closer. We maintained our togetherness until I came across an obscure vineyard of local reputation. The cow and I departed from each other at the driveway, “Vaya con dios!” I said, trusting the cow would not end up on a dinner table.
The vineyard was nostalgic looking as if from a sepia hued 1950s postcard. The wine was spectacular for its hidden qualities. Words escaped me. I was speechless. So, I just nodded, smiled, and said, “thank you”. As I departed down the road there was a sign that read, “salvation just ahead”. They have those signs in the South. I could use a bit of salvation without being charged for it or donating to some silver tongue preacher.
I was experiencing that part of my maturity defined as “intellectual coitus interruptus”, or mindful intercourse withdrawal. No matter how much I rationalized, it was a matter of blurred emotions amid the potholes of jolting vagueness without a climatic’ moment.
I drove west. I thought eventually I’d reach the Pacific. When I arrived at a paved road, I breathed a sigh of relief. The relief had an emotional tinge. The tear on my cheek was from the perspiration on my forehead.
My body is maturing faster than my mind. I know it’s easier to dance the Salsa in my brain. My fantasies are better than reality. I ruminated about a Spanish girl I kissed once. it was passionate. I shook my head and turned on the radio. News. I don’t like to listen to the news as much as I did in some romanticized past. Never appreciated voices that were embalmed with control no matter how profound a tone. I switched the channel.
The sunny day revealed my liking of Henry T shirts. No collars. I glanced over to a farmhouse and a woman standing in a garden patch. Experienced cleavage is always attractive. Why? The suggestive drooping breasts on an older woman as she bends over while planting flowers is artistic. I paint on commission. Women’s bodies in general are far more art worthy than a man’s physique, the exception being Michelangelo’s David. Consciousness and art are linked. A cooperation between subject and artist.
There’s organic beauty in non-competitive labor or vocation whether in a garden or painting a canvas or typing on a keyboard. I also like the smell of country air and the fragrance of the earth after a rain while painting or writing,
I turned the channel to talk radio. Callers to the station were anxious to share their opinions to the disc jockey who nurtured their need – its potential is a boon for marketing and branding.
Finally, I arrived. Route One. Where was I? Oh yeah, I took a minor detour because of road construction. Detours, like taking a different road than one planned on is all part of life’s rich tapestry.
No expectations. Mindful withdrawal symptoms. Perhaps I need to explore a vintage at another vineyard before I get too far into my journey of consciousness.
