(Remembering to treasure peace)
Right now I can hear deer, or foxes, or something.
Don’t shoot me. I’m not a naturalist. I don’t know.
I’m not a naturist either but that’s something else. Be pleased. I’m not a pretty sight.
Anyway, deer or foxes or something. In the night. Barking or calling or whatever it is experts say they do.
Would it be nice to be an expert in something? I don’t know. I’m not.
I’m a generalist you might say, I suppose. If you’re being kind. But that veers into dilettante. And maybe that’s the same as flaky.
Flaky. I guess that’s modern speak. Ha! I’ve never used an emoji. At least I know of Wittgenstein. Don’t worry, you don’t have to. But of course, if you’re young you’re offering regular thanks to the inventor of emojis anyway, aren’t you?
Whatever’s making noise is far enough away to not be overly annoying.
Thinking about it, given the time of year it’s probably a feral muntjac. Are they all feral?
A muntjac. The best guess is that it was a muntjac that nearly killed me. Bastard. Do you think that’s a sort of poetry? If there’s any poetry in the world the muntjac I can hear will be barking because it’s miserable, or threatened, or lonely, or bereaved.
I don’t include injured in the list. I’m not cruel.
You’re probably thinking I’m a moron if I think wishing mental misery on a deer isn’t cruel. You’re right. I couldn’t justify it; I couldn’t evoke anything that would make it right. It’s not even as if it’d be revenge. One muntjac does not a species make. And revenge is a dumb desire anyway.
Honesty. At least I try to be honest. And right now I don’t think I can be bothered to think much about what constitutes cruelty – to humans, to animals. It’s probably obvious but I’ve done thinking for the night. I said I was a dilettante. Live with it. I’m tired. Sleep’s lure is the promise of peace.
I’m thinking about peace now. I was thinking about it earlier today too.
I was visiting an old haunt, a park, with no agenda, no goal. Just spending some time on a bright day.
It was refreshing to realise that I was content being there – both today and way back when.
I know I find it easy to be restless but that’s a default for failure. You can’t always be looking. Enjoy the now. I have no excuse: I should know that the future isn’t guaranteed.
Haunts/the now is good
A public park. An old haunt.
A place of my own – sort of.
For the teenage edition of me it was enjoyably away:
away from adults I knew;
from adults who knew me.
I felt that than.
I doubt I could’ve explained it
(too inexperienced; inarticulate),
But I could relish the too-rare privacy.
It’s still a good place to be.
Nothing nefarious, not even naughty.
It doesn’t come with memories
of stealing, drugs, booze or sex.
Don’t be hassled.
Be with friends.
That was enough then.
The same simple factors
play out now.
Any wistfulness for what was
is only noticeable
for its absence.
As I write this, I am at peace with the now.
It might well be a good thing to visit an old haunt. Coming to terms with the past, if necessary and if possible, might well be sensible.
It might seem that finding ways to prevent the past intruding unpleasantly is a Gordian knot. If so, finding a personal sword to yield is unlikely to be easy.