Mopping Up

I now work at a large scale, not to be named, retail book seller. It is amazing to me how many people are content with their presence and behavior in public. Scratch that, the sense of amazement I reserver for startling things; the presencing of truth or beauty, artistic revelation, and the advancement of perception (usually spiritual) among others.

I think, more often than not, it creates in me a sadness, a curious anxiety for my fellow man. I need to be careful to keep myself locked out of that ivory tower we all have parked in our backyard. That is to say that I want this feeling, this notion, to be present within me without the sense of a down turned nose or that I am casting down a judgment from some lofty height. I do, still, have the persistent sense of mourning at the casualties of our 'modern sensibilities' and the real and present loss of life, not bodily, but of that which people have made of themselves.

I do not think this thought can adequately be done without some serious cataloging of my own faults, which I may do, to some extent, here. For even as I write it seems to me that this argument cannot be made whilst seeming to be on a level field. I have my own faults, I have missed opportunities, but I am persisting in my endeavors to create a rich inner life, to share my life intimately with those I meet, and to drink deep of the arts of others' expressions.

There is just so much loss, such a great deal of petty existence, that, at times, it staggers the mind.