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...to gather perspective, to sit in the sand on the beach
and lean up against what seemed like a good rock to lean up against and to get a great
piece of drift wood. Puget Sound is laid out before me. Beyond that, the Olympic
Mountains. My brothers, the crow, are all around. Flying, swooping, looking for grub and
saying to me as they do, "go... go... go." My self appointed way of knowing that
the universe is affirming my direction. I can feel the air in motion created by their
wings, flying only a few feet above my head.
Further away the occasional seagull volleys back an echoing attempt for
my auditory attention, But my brother the crow, remind me that; seagulls, for all their
good reputations, are little more than rats with wings.
There are a few humans on the beach, out near the water. But to my good
fortune, the tide is out and has displayed enough real estate, that their agendas are not
annoying me. A girl and her dog have the rest of eternity planned out. She throws a stick
as far into Puget Sound as she can and the dog swims out to get it. I am convinced she'll
be satiated with this non-event until her dog drowns.
On my journey to this spot, I passed a guy that I could only describe as
a doof. Now he is lumbering his way out to the water, the girl and the dog. I instantly
recognize his intentions. He moves slow and is trying not to lead with his dick... but
please!!! His intent is dragging him along like a cucumber on a string. He stops at the
waters edge about 50 feet from her and pretends to be collecting important data for his
humanity enhancing research, by staring at the water. She is still enjoying the exercise
of watching her dog swim for a stick. He crab walks side ways towards her. His head is
down like a new wolf in the pack, unsure who is the dominate one.
He walks almost completely by her, trying to think of any reason she
should be talking to him. And evidently his intentions did not give way to a plan that
would facilitate his goal. For a moment I am reveling in his failure. An empty attempt
does not count. He must apply for acceptance and then, slowly and painfully, be denied.
Only then will I reward him with my respect.
Then, as if she momentarily understood the crows, she speaks to him. He
nearly breaks his neck turning around and at the same time a smile impales his face, like
a dog when you speak his name. It is at this precise moment, that his life is defined. He
understands now, at levels of the very fabric of his being, why I have labeled him, in my
passing, as a doof. She has spoken to him and he has nothing to retort.
They now stand a few feet apart. She has the recurring duty of stick
throwing to tend and he's looking at the ground with his hands in his pockets, kicking
rocks with his shoe.
I revel in the therapeutic values of my little spot by the sea. I scour
the beach line with the binoculars. I breath in deeply the fresh briny aroma of the salt
water. I decipher more crow code. I photograph some beach compositions. I lose myself in a
thousand yard stare at the mountains till my glaze records a moving figure. It's the doof.
Hands still in his pockets, head still down, as he walks away from the girl and her dog,
still engaged in their endeavor. I can hear his mind repeating under its breath...
All of man kinds woes are auto erotically provisioned and today is a good day to die.
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