Martians

I enjoy throwing rocks at other rocks.

 More than that, I need to throw rocks at other rocks. And not just any rocks will do, either; they have to be pelagic rocks, or, in a pinch, river rocks, but ocean cultured rocks are better because the ocean is better. The ocean takes care of its rocks. Ocean rocks and stones have purpose. The biggest rocks are bound to endless retreat against the ocean’s march which retreats immediately after every advance. The children of these rocks display and hide a stunning cornucopia of life, and the smallest stones, cultured and polished, are laid out in broad arrays.

For me.

 It’s not mindless, this throwing rocks at other rocks, there’s a style and a method to how I do it. You’d likely culture your own style, that’s fine. It’s all about the clacking, and the best clacking comes from and clean strike, which happens, more often than not as a result of the necessarily somewhat aimless nature of the pastime, by accident.

 I think there must be a healing frequency in that sharp report, and it is compounded by the number of clacks I get from a single toss. It must be nearly incalculably random, the path of every stone. I mean, even if I hit the other stone that I am aiming at, the following trajectory is impossible to predict, and has the wonderful benefit of always delivering surprise and delight, which, even when present in their most basic form, make everything better. I’m not invested in the outcome of every toss, so I can never be disappointed, more, I can never NOT be pleased with how it plays.

 I imagine this kind of thing is where the philosophies of the 8-fold path, and the four agreements, etc., came from. I might be wrong, and it wouldn’t be my first blasphemy, and it certainly won’t be my last, but I’m probably not wrong. Right place, right time, right attitude, right action, clack, clack, clacketyclackclackclack, clack. Reading that aloud makes me think of Mars Attacks, but that’s waaaay outside the focus of this musing, or used to be.

 I’m never right all the time; I miss, I’m in the wrong place, my attitude sucks today, my life is full of uncertainty and struggle, I burned a bridge, I’m not as good as I thought I was, just like the human race when the angry, brainy little Martians arrived in their flying saucers and kicked everyone’s ass for a while.

Despite the usefulness of a metaphor to represent a conundrum and present a solution (isn’t that interesting how I can re present something that hasn’t been presented yet), I can’t flog it forever. Nature calls.

 I am, by nature, a target seeking organism, and the quality of my life depends on my target. My target isn’t a rock on the beach, that’s just a where I go to when being Jonathan Parlee has drained me, or beaten me up, or I’m overwhelmed by all the input, and I just want to go be one with the fucking universe for a little while. It’s a nice break, and breaks like that are vital if you don’t want to break yourself, but it’s just a break.

You grok?