It’s not immediately clear as to why we should express gratitude for these minuscule things we take for granted every day,
but certain wise people–time and again–have said that inner peace is really just gratitude wrapped up in some nondenominational bunting and tossed over the side of a pontoon while you’re fishing in the middle of Lake Superior in the middle of the longest day of Summer,
where somehow you find one lonesome chunk of ice inexplicably adrift as though it could have been placed there for the purpose of setting up a convenient visual aid for a climate change documentary.
Little Bergamot–that’s what we’re calling our frozen hero du jour–simply minds their own business out there, doing their best not to knock into anybody, when out of the blue someone inconsiderate–such as yourself, perhaps–putzes their way over and just so happens to chuck that bunting, smacking ol’ Bergie right in their weak little slush-filled belly,
sending our hapless pilgrim to re-integrate with its watery cousins
much quicker than otherwise established through melting rates
extolled by scientists the world around as
“the purest definition of why humans shouldn’t underestimate
the contributions made to global ecology
through strict, unbiased observation of this universe around us.”
Or some version of that sanctimonious diatribal crap; Bergie won’t be around to hear it anyway.
This insinuative retreat right here
will find us contemplating
at the bitter end of firsts,
where we ultimately unwind
the flitting intricacies
formally acquainted with the frigid
bridges of the morn,
or what we would otherwise call
the belaying of the holy trinity
(deployment of proper parsonage,
delayment of prosperous personage).
In one word or another,
we’re all glad to be cloaked
in that vinegar-spritzer veil
associated with the sleaziest
cashier chicken spirit sprints.
Absurdity is rampant, all you jelly bean mongers out there (and aspiring monger-types who just haven’t caught your big break yet (it’s coming, trust me))!
The point here is the absurdity of even doing anything at all, let alone to the point where we can press our most sacred thoughts into lasting pellets of intuition and wildly disseminate them–in perpetuity–across the universe.
Effort would be considered the lion’s share of the process; it’s not the transcendence of this field of shapes and arbitrary sets of value, no, how could it be? For we are but simple field mice, content to labor our way through all hours of the day, afraid to look up or take pause.
Fear of the finite, the decay, the ruination of our children within, we clutch to anything resembling the womb.
But to state these maladies is only to bring attention back to that stale old paradigm, failing to uplift, only presenting symptoms of the perpetual problems while offering no solutions. What are we to do? Dive into some kind of fantastic phantasmagorical wonderscape?
Gretchen Ann simply needed to demonstrate the breadth of her innate yodeling abilities. Never once a formal student of the craft, her superb tonality and unapologetic virtuosity always brought her audience–usually herself–to the verge of emotional breakdown.