My walk to work is like a 10 minute movie with tiny variations every day, usually consisting of pauses for traffic, random looks here and there, and sometimes the movie screen is filled with the pages of a book. It would be interesting to see them all overlapped, going back to 2007, and watch everything blur together except for tha main features... the road, houses, trees, the approach to 7-Eleven. Yesterday I encountered a major deviation from the norm. Somebody had written on the sidewalk on Normal street with white chalk "have a great day!" and left a chunk of chalk lying there, a obvious invitation to reply. So I stopped and wrote a thank you with the chalk. The rain probably washed it all away last night. I can imagine waves of green odor exhuding from the guy who buys copenhagen every day as he walks down Oak St. in the distance, leaving a lingering trail behind him. If he stood out in that torrential downpour, I can only imagine the smell taking on a deeper stench, unless soap was also falling out of the sky. What I'm doing right now is sinful and only serves to separate me from God... this writing. Indulging my will by recording my memories, as if that serves any purpose than reinforcing my sense of self. To be ascetic means abandoning all self will. I don't know if I can do that. Even Theophan the recluse had books and a microscope in his cell though, so even he was't perfect. I wonder what kinds of concessions to myself I would keep if I were a monk. Probably a private diary, and a bottle of vodka. Maybe a small shelf of science fiction for the days when fasting is forbidden.
