Sod can get expensive.

Bludgeon

Rays of light were scattering through the dirt as the sun peaked over newly formed ridges that had risen up from wild ballistics originating a world away. Each new dawn brings with it its own surprises, as every day's beginning is a whole new set of beginnings. For now, placed on this spinning marble, the beginnings never end, and time is only stratified to keep an humanistic order. So rather than tin-wrapped discrete burrito servings, a dawn is smooth and flowing, a blanket without end continuously wrapped around this globe in the warming embrace of a partly-remembered history written down in burned out libraries and long buried rock strata.
So no beginning is universally more important than any other, but in the relative, disagreements are bound to occur. Especially this beginning, this dawn. Not an ordinary dawn in the sense of the disappearance of the night, as it is well into the morning. It is just the sun was so late because this dawn is witnessed from the depths of a hole still smoldering in the ground. The shadow of the crater's edge slowly slips away, and the visitor's hand reaches out in response to embrace this new and exciting dawn, full of opportunity and possibility. This is truly an important dawn indeed. Like every dawn, this one quickly slips to the next beginning. A spectacular beginning filled with discovery and surprises.
It is surprising how strong an empty wine bottle is when used as a bludgeon. Cutting short any initial fears of invasion, and taking the first crude steps toward understanding foreign anatomy, the local feels his dominance over the yard is secure. Well manicured lawns are a valuable commodity, and not something upon which one should tread lightly, or land irreverently. Of course, not all discoveries can be directly applied to future actions, but at least an effort at precedent was made.

Forbidden fruits in holy books

Forbidden

A tiny surge of exhilaration reinforced with tactile feedback starts a spark. A spark, a flash, a tiny bit of energy flashing through organic distributor cables, beginning the slow turn of an ancient gear. Moss and rust have grown thick in an unorthodox embrace, and both are eager to capitalize on hesitation. Momentum, the beast that cannot be created, cannot be denied and each tooth bites into its subsequent place. Each bit of progress catalyzes the next and the slow dopamine drip begins transmission across calcium waves. Long closed doors begin to open, pathways and desires reveal themselves anew with each turning page. This was unexpected, but far from unwelcome, this dusty new tome that brings renewal for old thoughts to be discovered and young ones to lead the way.

Prophecy beats reality.

Revelations

There's a certain satisfaction with the known, a certain confidence that arises at knowing the parabolic path of the cannonball. A tinge of pleasure inebriates our brains with subtle shooters of dopamine as simple similes replace understanding and predictability is taken for granted. In the drunken haze fantasy and reality are mixed, shaken and strained, until our pleasure is poured into a pristine tumbler, and our pleasure is served up neat. The 'tender smiles, and we're happy to partake, pondering an adequate tip. But the metaphor is wrong. The jazz dies away and the images melt, because a new piece of this puzzle has been found, and the fantasy no longer fits. Beyond black and white, beyond good and evil, there is much more detail that breaks the story down. The discovered piece reveals the existence of the infinitely possible unknown, with all its potentials and disappointments. So the fantasy is gone, in the most unsatisfactory of ways, and we find complacence was time wasted as we were only just beginning.

rain

Today, rainstorms swept through the valley, and when they had ceased, they left a low level of clouds that hung just below the mountain tops, but just above the roads that passed between fields. The mountains themselves had soft, tendrils of clouds that still clung to the tree tops, misty looking fingers reaching back down to the herds of animals below, as if they were seeking the supple touch of life, to tenderly caress. The pale white fog was pouring forth from the sky like smoke from the lips of a wise and stately wizard, puffing away on his pipe. It flowed together through the mountain cracks as if to imitate the subtle nuances of gentle waterfalls. It was a momentary vision of peace, a fleeting touch of enlightenment that had to be delicately gathered in small sips, for big tractor trailers demand attention as well.

I'm building my house wherever I damn well please.

Stumbling

There’s a momentary panic that sets in when a displaced past is brought forward for remembrance. As the rogue memory steps onto the stage of consciousness, lucidity becomes a rising curtain as confusion sets the stage and self delineation is disrupted with the incongruities of the past. A little uncertainty never hurt anyone, which is good, because uncertainty fills the surrounding seats, packing the house as each individual doubt slowly takes a seat. As the mistruths of memory replace forgotten spaces, the characters in this play get a little more complex. The world doesn’t fit well inside the of a skull, so even as the memories are wrapping up you’ve already covered them in a light gloss and dulled the edges for easier consumption. Tomorrow a coat of paint, and some time with a sander will render it blunt and then the patiently built life can continue on as before. Tomorrow we can forget old stepping stones and stumbling blocks and reaffirm our belief in the here and now. Tell ourselves who and what we are. The past is past and we move on so we may become what we may eventually be, whatever that may be. However just now, just for now, remember that not everything went as hoped, remember the pains and remember the trials, and remember that all smooth surfaces and solid stones hide a multitude of cracks underneath.

Education always has some value.

Corinthian

Some things never really serve an individual purpose, only existing to serve as part of a larger whole. Still, even small stones making up a path each have an individual fingerprint, fossil remnant, or some other individual signature that catches the occasional eye, something that sufficiently tugs on a strand of curiosity that gets drawn up and close to intense scrutiny. I guess what strikes a fancy is always individual, and what is interesting enough to pocket and take home is as well. After years have passed, and the little reminders serve their function, we can ponder the stone, whose path is still there, or we can ponder the path, that led us to where we are. Looking back some things always seem less important than others, as there are stones and memories that we did not take with us. Sometimes the memory we’ve chosen to remind us doesn’t always make much sense either. It just seems like a piece of a past whose significance blurred by the passage of time. I remember columns; Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian, but I can’t think of the reason that this might be important.

A mutant gene in human thought.

Uncanny

Isn't it funny, how some things can be too sacred to be touched, so they are hidden away to protect them from familiarity. What is value, when it escapes an economist's hands and is held in mint condition, hidden away, and left unread. How is an idea so important that it cannot be questioned and must be guarded from doubt's cold hands. What of words whose consequences prevent utterance, like love and hate? When do people become untouchable and could we have another Houdini, or are all true heroes really dead? Through legend and lore and listening to the old folk's words there are certain things that take on a holiness all their own. Touching is blasphemous, and understanding is condemned as if it was a wrong to make uncanny heroes merely men.

I would like to add that this post in no way condones Indiana Jones IV.