Sitting in the sunshine, listening to David Gilmour play a Kate Bush song. A dragonfly buzzes by. Hi, dragonfly. How are you?
Leave me alone, I’m searching for a mate.
I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You can use my lawn for breeding purposes, if you wish.
I’m pretty sure some rabbits procreated on my grass. It explains the chewed up vegetables and the occasional poop. I usually find poop under the trampoline. It’s not mine. Promise. Baby bunnies are so cute. I’m hungry, hot, and I’m privileged that I even get to write this, on a laptop, outside a house I own, in a free country… one that has problems, to be sure. We all have problems, don’t we.
I’m still such a corporate hound. If you’re not part of that world, you have no idea how much it eats at you, and makes you numb. You stop feeling things, stop caring, until your self-evaluation is only possible through accumulation of money. This is not a sustainable pathway for the world.
Which brings me to sunshine and dragonflies, and how they interact in the middle of July, 2022. Some telescope just took an image of the universe 13 billion years ago. Long before there were blue skies. Long before we existed. But that’s the beauty of art, of writing, as it delves into things we couldn’t see for ourselves – a refutation of the cold world we have built in exchange for the worlds of light that we aspire to.
Go back to your breeding, bunnies. Go find a mate, dragonfly. Writers, meanwhile, have to create. That’s all you have to do, in the sunshine or not, here or somewhere else. Thirteen billion lightyears away, or next door, in the basement, hoping for a glimpse of warmth, the stuff that we are eminently capable of creating.