Some think that heaven too is a circle

I arrived in time for dinner.

The circles were a whirl of motion.

The guests were simply aglow. Moving about. Patterns of motion within patterns of motion. Conversation. Not discernable. Just enough to know that conversation was invigorating. As one guest circulated one way, another guest the opposite way. The coherent balance of the banquet hall remained static in the swirling pattern of circles.

One by one, a guest would quickly sneak a delicacy from the bounty of the smorgasbord. And in the attempted haste to not be detected, they invariably made a splash for themselves.

I had come to nourish my soul.

To read again from Emerson. This time his essay “Circles.”

But I was entranced by the ritual of dinner unfolding before me.

I didn’t think they would mind. So I did it anyway. Unlaced my laces. Slipped out of my shoes. Pulled off my socks. Let my toes taste of the smorgasbord the dinner guests and I now shared.

So warm. Surprisingly warm. The remnant heat from summer in this mid-November day.

The warmth of the light in the setting sun was behind me. The dinner guests were bathed in it. The limestone cliffs across the bay shimmered.

I would read from Emerson. Underline sentences. Be struck with the homology of Emerson’s words with an on-going conversation with a fellow saunterer seeking what it means to be a Deist.

So many little points of departure in this essay. So many conversations for the days ahead. The Wandering Saunterer simply must read this essay.

A hush fell over the dinner guests.

With some signal from the maître d', the choreography and conversation came to a silent reprieve. Each guest took their respective place at the smorgasbord.

The seagulls had been nourished. Smorgasbord creatures gave their lives in the nourishment of others. And past on what they in turn had taken from still others.

And now, it was the bobbing of seagulls on the tranquility of that smorgasbord lake.

Emerson. “Circles.”

There are no fixtures in nature. The universe is fluid and volatile.
Permanence is but a word of degrees. Our globe seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. The law dissolves the act and holds it fluid. . . . Nature looks provokingly stable and secular, but it has a cause like all the rest; and when once I comprehend that, will these fields stretch so immovably wide, these leaves hang so individually considerable? Permanence is a word of degrees. Every thing is medial. Moons are no more bounds to spiritual power than batballs.

The light is fading. I look up from Emerson. The seagulls have drifted away. I can’t see them now. Transparent. Not a mass of facts. My perception of them dissolves. The smorgasbord is fluid. It is tranquil. Provokingly stable. Secular.

My toes still dwell within the seagull’s smorgasbord.

We shared. In one way of many ways, the seagulls and I shared.

The way a teacher shares with a student. Seagull, teaching me.

The old weathered sign was emphatic.

“Beach closes at dusk.”

I turned to retrieve my rolled up socks.

There is something about trying to put socks back onto feet that are still wet from the banquet table.

And there is that awesome feeling when feet are again encapsulated in the accoutrements of civilization but regaining their tingling warmth. It makes the heart beat softer.

The sun had now set behind the cliff behind me. The old oak tree in the bottom of this little beach cove was stalwart in its persistence to reach for and grasp to the heavens for that last glimmer of light. The golden leaves in the crown of that old tree, caught in the little eddies of wind, defiantly proclaimed their clinging to the day.

My eyes dropped.

Something had moved.

And there they were.

A pair of daddy-long-legs spiders.

Moseying along together. Then they stopped. Hesitated. So carefully those long limbs became intermingled. And they came together. Sixteen legs of cuddling. And they cuddled. Together. And cuddled. And cuddled. And what transpired between them was sacred.

In time, they slowly came apart. Slowly, carefully, the un-mingling of sixteen legs.

There seemed a moment of hesitation.

However they communicated. They communicated.

And they experienced the awesome experience of cuddling.

And moseyed on their separate ways.

St. Augustine described the nature of God as a circle whose center was everywhere and its circumference nowhere.

The Deist would ascribe my perceptions to One Awesome Power that is the author of a sacred scripture that was just revealed to me.

Dinner guests. Flying in the circles of the beauty of randomness. Cohesiveness. Each taking their turn in selecting the comestibles from the smorgasbord of a lake. Aquatic creatures, for whatever reason, moving close to the edge of the serving platter.

The beak and claw of one. The life of another.

Death of one as the perpetuation of another.

A circle.

The cuddling circles of dandy-long-legs. The encircling of and within each other’s arms of embrace.

A circle.

As Emerson said: “The eye is the first circle; the horizon which it forms is the second; and throughout nature this primary figure is repeated without end. It is the highest emblem in the cipher of the world.”

Some think that heaven too is a circle.

This silent guest to a banquet just experienced it.

The Refectory Manager

Assumptions

Checking into and out of a hotel is my way of life. Life on the road. Ten days at a time. So the little things start to matter. Like finding a luggage cart.

I have been in and out of this hotel now for nearly 10 weeks. I know they have only one luggage cart. I know where it is supposed to be.

Tonight, the first trip in was with the tote-cart, computer as my life, and all. Get the magnetic thingy from the registration desk that lets me into a room. Which room this time? I do forget after awhile. No luggage cart in the usual place.

A little later, another trip in. This time with four cloth bags with handles. Handy for a lot of loose stuff like paper plates, plastic wear, DVDs and the other essentials of hotel life. No luggage cart in the usual place.

It is still fairly early, so I go to the Mexican restaurant over, across the way. Too far to walk, although I should. Early enough so I can eat a little something hot and not have heartburn all night. When I get back. No luggage cart in its usual place.

O.K. So some “guest” just left it somewhere. Now to go on a search and rescue mission.

Before hitting the elevator button, I took a leaning glance up and down the first-floor causeway. No luggage cart in sight.

“Can I help you?” This immaculately dressed, rather substantial, tastefully made-up lady asks me as she walks toward me.

She didn’t quite look like hotel staff. Assumptions. But her assertive nature made me think she might know something about something.

“I’m trying to find the luggage cart.” As I point to the place where it is supposed to be.

“I don’t work here. But I have lots of gifts for the lady in your life! I am from Mary Kay.”

Assumptions!

It does happen. Sometimes I do things that promote assumptions. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I just can’t help it. It is just the way that it is.

Like the Saturday morning a couple of years or so ago. Doing some kind of little errands at a nearby strip mall, and happened to notice a bagel shop.

What the heck. Fresh bagels. Sounds like it could hit the spot.

Stood in line, waited my turn. Ordered two of something. Gave bills. Got bag. Change. Receipt. Walking out the door. Change feels wrong. Check it out to see if I have been shorted or something. Assumptions.

And the change was more than it should be.

Now I will have to go back in and make it right with them.

But I look at the receipt.

Senior Discount!

Damn! Assumptions! She ASSUMED I needed a senior discount!

I’m that bad? That fossilized? That weathered? That stooped? That feeble? Stumbling that close to the Grim Reaper?

She ASSUMED I needed a senior discount!

Truth is, I was about a month the other side of 60 at that point. Close. But that only counts in hand grenades, horse shoes and slow dancing.

And now, I didn’t know if I should be mad because she assumed I warranted a senior discount when I didn’t but apparently looked the part, or happy that she insults me and saved me a few coins.

So now, what am I to suppose to assume about her?

But back to the Mary Kay rep.

Don’t know if she really did a surveillance check on me or not. I’ve heard that some women are pretty good at doing that kind of thing. Kind of like a feministo use of techniques of gay-dar. But if she did, there was no left 4th-finger ring to observe. No rings of any kind.

So just what kind of “lady in my life” does she think I have? Especially the kind where I would want to buy the delicate little Mary Kay smelly thingies?

I suppose the innocent thing to think would be a mother. But that might be a stretch to assume. Apparently I look the well-established age where senior discounts for bagels are quite the norm.

But without a ring, what other kind of lady might there be? And what kind of assumption makes an assumption about assumptions like that?

I suppose I looked kind of stunned when she asked me that. It did take me momentarily off my guard.

The elevator door opened so I could look for luggage carts on another floor.

I bit my check. “Lady, if you only knew!”

And I don’t know any cross-dressers.

The Refectory Manager

Oatmeal Raisin Conversation

Maybe Destiny dances the dance of dally with the comestibles for horses. Yet maybe she doesn’t. But those oats! There is something about those oats. Your selection of little oat cakes, serendipitously infused with the stickiness and sweetness of plump little raisins was the dalliance of conversation delight.

It is not often that I can or even have had the opportunity to share a conversation like what we had last night.

It was so natural, so open, so safe, so fulfilling to share with you things I cannot, dare not share with most others.

The staple of oats.

The small talk. The sharing, back and forth, of textures, of substance, of testing ideas, concepts, of exploring boundaries. Of realizing strong perceptions, of ideas being challenged, of traditions being exposed. The revealing of the intimacy of one’s very own persona. Of the realization that the complexities of oats is a truly deliciously delicious thing.

And the raisins.

The sweetness. The stickiness. The surprise. The delight of raisins.

Those little snippets of conversation that brought out the radiance of a smile, of a laugh, of a realization of so many similarities yet so many differences and how alike, like and unlike can be.

An oatmeal raisin conversation.

The clerk that joked with us about her wanting to save the oatmeal raisin cakes for her to take home. And how I was going to let her do that. And how Destiny impressed her to deny herself that treat. How you insisted on those very oatmeal raisin cakes. And what then happened with oatmeal raisin conversation.

Where that hour and half went, I have no idea. I was totally immersed in oatmeal raisin conversation.

In retrospect, I wonder about those around us, what they overheard. What they thought.

And I care not.

For what they saw was a living, breathing, oatmeal raisin conversation with a passion for excitement I have not experienced in a long, long while.

What they heard was a sense of joy. The stickiness. The sweetness. The delectableness of raisins. The surprise of dried up grapes.

And if they have any sense of humanity about them at all, they witnessed what can happen with the dance of dally with plain old horse’s oats and the serendipity of raisins.

And as wonderful as those oatmeal cakes were, they truly were “musty.” Yes. Musty!

For I simply “must have” some more.

Oatmeal raisin conversation.

One of those quintessential comfort foods and experiences that nourish the soul.

The Refectory Manager

Emerson, Fertilizer and the Broth of Shoes

Ok. So I snuck off from work that afternoon. Lord knows I have the comp time up the wazzoo.

It was the idyllic perfect fall day. Brilliant sunshine. Cobalt blue sky. Just the tiniest hint of a nip in the air.

I went to Eisenhower State Park on the shores of Lake Texoma in Texas.

There I found a secluded picnic table where I could see through the dappled fall leaves to the royal blue waters. The sailboat would peak out from between the leaves as it gently moved across the vista of bliss.

As I sat there and listened, it was a cacophony of subtlety. The drone of some carbon guzzling contrivance . . . maybe power boat, maybe air plane. Too far away, too constant to tell. The squeals of children’s play from a playground over yonder. Two little birds, sassing each other out. But that rustle. The crinkled rustling of a micro-squall of wind herding along a horde of dehydrated disheveled leaves.

But to my purpose.

To read Emerson. Yes, that Emerson. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Another one of his essays.

This time it was the one he delivered to Phi Beta Kappa Society, at Cambridge, on August 31, 1837. The American Scholar.

It was addressed to “Mr. President and Gentlemen.” Guess not to many lady scholars in Cambridge that night.

More gentle wind. More dappled leaves. More bird squawking. More children’s play.

And then, Emerson just said it. “That the first in time and the first in importance of the influences upon the mind is that of nature.”

Later, I would find that the next great influence into the spirit of the scholar “is the mind of the Past,--in whatever form, whether of literature, of art, of institutions, that mind is inscribed.” But books are the best.

For now, with me at least, in that moment, nature was winning.

How can Nature not win? It was and is written by the finger of God.

And nature was awesome at this secluded table in a deciduous forest.

I could hear them coming.

There was a pathway just below the picnic table. Their chatter. Not recognizable. And then as they came into view, I knew why. Chinese. Father and two little boys and a little girl. All the same size. Maybe triplets. And as they past from view, I heard the ruckus. Somebody fell. Somebody was hurt. What they say in Chinese I don’t know. But nature’s inviolate rules of physics maintained their integrity when a little foot must have tripped on an exposed root. Soon, their dignity returned.

More words from Emerson: “When he can read God directly, the hour is too precious to be wasted in other men’s transcripts of their readings.” In so many words, save the books for when you have to use a candle for light.

And so, some quiet time for me of just listening.

Reading with the ears.

Nature’s transcripts.

Not Emerson’s.

And then the dang thing rang.

My cell phone.

My heart skipped a beat. Maybe it was a call that I was anticipating. But looking at the screen, it was Michelle, my daughter.

And so for the next hour, the business talk. Oh, we have lots to commiserate about with our business. Same occupation. Same employer. And the family talk. The non-plans for Christmas. The birthdays in the next weeks. The weather. And then politics. Libertarian daughter pitted against socialist father. Healthcare. Emergency rooms . . . the primary care physician for the non-insured.

And the conversation twisted to my remarking that it has been years and years since I ever went to an emergency room. It was when I had my scalp split open.

And she started to laugh. And laugh. And laugh.

I didn’t think she remembered, so I had to tell her. The time the dang fertilizer spreader fell off the hook in the garage and clouted me in the head, nearly knocking me out, and ripping a blood-gusher of a hole in my scalp.

Oh, did she remember.

She had been in the house and heard the reverberation of thunder emitting from the garage.

Clatter. And then “GOD!! DAMN!!”

By the time she dropped everything, she found me sitting on the front steps, ashen, with blood running everywhere.

And now she laughed some more. “GOD!! DAMN!!”

The picture was fixated in her mind!

Her father with a cracked crown. “GOD!! DAMN!!”

As she was laughing, I realized just how unflattered I must have been. And so, I too, started to laugh.

And at some point, one of us hit the “Call End” button.

Then back to Emerson. The third thing Emerson said about scholars is that there is some notion that a scholar should be a recluse, a valetudinarian.

I hesitate to even look up what a “valetudinarian” is. But Emerson did say, just before he said that, that “We all know, that as the human body can be nourished on any food, though it were boiled grass and the broth of shoes, so the human mind can be fed by any knowledge.”

Somehow, my idyllic day in nature, boiled-grass-and-shoe-broth-purgative be damned, did a little something to keep me from being a valetudinarian . . . whatever the hell that is. Must have really worked. ‘Cause it was an awesome day.

The Refectory Manager

Wailin' Palin'

That "authentic" moose-killer certainly had some fancy tastes:

The campaign was charged for silk boxer shorts, spray tanners and 13 suitcases to carry all the designer clothes, according to two GOP insiders. "The shopping continued after the convention in Minneapolis, it continued all around the country," one source said. "She was still receiving shipments of custom-designed underpinnings up to her 'Saturday Night Live' performance" in October. Sources said expenses were put on the personal credit cards of low-level Palin staffers and discovered when they asked party officials for reimbursement.

Another source called them the “Hillbillies from Wasilla” that looted the Neiman Marcus stores from coast to coast.

But I wonder just how many guys out there thought that the First Dude was hot!!!???!!!

In silk boxer briefs? No less??!!

Seems to me he would be radio active!!!

But let me assure you, one will get their barnacles frizzed off in those things in a typical Alaskan winter day! At least up in the interior of Alaska where I lived for two years. I have seen it -50 deg below zero on several occasions.

You really do want fur-lined undies!!! LOL But no need to go there!!!

I truly hope there is a teevee sitcom in her future. Kind of like based on the old “Beverly Hillbillies, but this time in the setting of “West Wing” as a governor’s mansion. With a lot of spinoffs and subplots from “Northern Exposure,” a little para-normal stuff from “Twin Peaks,” and have both Tina Fay and The Diva, playing herself, in a twisted diabolical duo that drives The First Dude to a silky, salacious, serendipitous dalliance with a cross-dresser from Victoria Secrets. The show could be pimped with the motto “Unless you are the lead dog, the view is all the same. Doncha’ know that by now?”

But alas, her future will only be assured by the witch-burning, short-earth, God-the-dinosaur-bone-practical-jokin’, me-not-a-monkey’s uncle, flat-earth, serial polygamists fundie right-wing Talibanist nut-cakes. Those folks simply are not rational enough to know there is even such a thing as reason. And somebody with the intellectual curiosity of not even a 3rd grader is right up their intellectual alley.

I heard that the Obama administration really does want to be bi-partisan. Seems she is going to be offered the position to be Ambassador to Russia. She won’t even have to leave home.

And oh! She only wanted a Diet Dr. Pepper once in a while.

Guess maybe the silk undies were for him!!

But enough of the Wailin’ Palin’ for now. The Lipstick Chronicles will undoubtedly continue.

The Refectory Manager