night moves

No, no Bob Segar, I'm afraid. Just gentle musings of what I am currently pleased to describe as a "backwoods cretin"; seems appropriate given my rather obliquely rural upbringing and insistence on escapist nonconformity with popular culture. That is, I know nothing of anything that everyone knows, and have a mental block that keeps it that way. It's pretty fantastic.

Off topic, massively. I was actually intending to talk about time, and night, and nighttime, and night-time, and how lovely it is to meld, suspended, with the grand arc of time when it's quiet, dark, and still...seems rather ironic to speak of stillness (invoking the Koan posted below), but at the same time it's a sort of overflow of effusive joy that makes its way into everything (since it comprises and is composed of everything, all of the time -- the point, in other words). Time's very meaninglessness becomes soothingly obvious when everything is still and tomorrow is forever away. Surrounded by cats, who I am convinced are anciently imbued with the knowledge of time's triviality, anbd from whose eyes and propensity for napping one can learn the most intimate secrets of the world, I speak in fragments and run-ons, deliriously happy in my quiet night oasis. Facebook flashes, and I ignore it (but not really, since I'm writing about it here, right now, and thinking about it continually as it blinks, blinks, blinks, trying to force me to correspond with a figment of my high school imagination, so rather than ignore perhaps the word I mean is avoid) to drift a moment longer. Its flashes, though, are carefully timed, and remind me over and over that chronology is a persistent little fable...
Now, some links, since I segue like a goddess (read that as you will): Hymns to the Night and Being Time, graciously directed by another N whose preoccupation with transcendence and universality came into my general understanding of life right when I needed it to, of course.

Anyway, general drift (heh): I like the night for its anonymity, its escapist magnitude of silence and slumber, its reminder that at all times there is a pulsing dreaming unconscious hive that hums and carries on the menial tasks of existence, but that is continually in the process of spinning liquid gold...it is the alchemist, in his or her most literal, reductive form, and yet begs reinterpretation as the transcendent.

"If you focus on the local, you can reach the universal" (pleasantly paraphrased by Matt Molloy).