different day, different world

Something is happening to me and I'm not quite sure what it is. This morning during meditation I descended pretty far down the mine shaft. It was very quiet down there, but also very bright, with lots of what looked like colored lights flaring and then fading, mostly purple and yellow ones.

Gradually returning to the world, I poured a cup of coffee and prepared to sit down to do battle on the internet. But I couldn't do it. Something was different. Instead of anticipating arguing brilliantly on a discussion board, or wowing correspondents with my flashy and elegant prose, I was mildly repulsed by the prospect.

So I took a shower and went grocery shopping (with a list of course), and even drove to the store -- the first Saturday I've driven since I got the bike, I think. Then I parked and walked up to the Uncouth Buzzard to get something to read. The interesting and unusual proprietor checked my account in his account books, rather than with a computer, as people once did and will again. And since my account is active, I got a used copy of Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "One Hundred Years of Solitude" for $1.37.

I've waited for about 50 years to start this book, and I waited until exactly the right time, the right day even. This guy's imagination is like an out-of-control zucchini patch, and he makes no effort to restrain it. it's all very Latin as one might expect. They experience the world differently than we do, and when talented express themselves with lavish exuberance.

I don't understand what happened this morning, and it certainly wasn't intentional. I don't know were this is leading, and it's a little strange at times, but I like it.

--30--