so that I can go back and play

It was a dark and stormy night, somewhere. Here, it is beautiful. A cool autumn day. The katydids hum their work songs, the occasional breeze through the branches holding still green leaves. The machinations of traffic in the distant are a low drone. More so, I hear an occasional bird chirp, their tiny throats distilling a quiet, bell-like message to resonate within their territory and through the skies. We turn away–we, the planet–from more sun, on a path towards the shorter days, the circumstance of less heat, the distance from the sun's grace. But we're cheery. We know what we have to do. We have to dance!

Or not. I have to type. I have to take in the honeysuckle scent, redistribute the feelings and sensory experience into a prose form. I have to. It is my dance. Though my limbs don't move but so much, there is a motion, miniscule that occurs. Not unlike the slowly turning and returning planet orbiting the ball of great fury, I am typing and my innards, my bones, my spirit is slowly and nearly imperceivabley wrapping or orbiting a self-attained purpose. Which is to dance. Or stretch.

My dogs are barking. I am in a regional area with regional sayings. Still, when I say "my dogs are barking" I don't mean that my feet hurt. Instead, I literally mean that my dogs are barking and throwing off my concentration and concentric motion across the consciousness of the "to dance."

Crap. I better go check this out.

"Hey! Shussh!"

Okay. It was just dogs barking at dogs. No, though I live in a regional place with regional sayings, I don't mean that hurt feet were hurting other hurt feet. I just mean that the dogs were barking and I let them back inside to their lush dogs beds. Sometimes, as much as I think they want to be outside, they really just want to sleep on those big comfy beds, have me rub their bellies. Or go for giant, adventurous walks to far off destinations like the park. But to just be in the backyard? Of course, for me right now, in this moment, the backyard is the big adventure. No wait. No its not. That's why I'm still typing, hovering over the cathartic experience that comes from touching base with oneself, searching for a direct path into the future with reference to the past. I'm in a different place, but this typing proves the purpose of going for the walk, the stretch, the exercise; not the new scents, but the appreciation for how those scents sensed before relate to where I've been long ago with the accumulation of new experiences, new phrases, a focused ability to achieve the closeness to the sense of wonderment.

A cataclysm could happen anytime. A word like "cataclysm" could come up at any time. I consider this a warm-up? A reaching out? A reorienting of myself to the values that I know will get me to get my other work done. To make some income. I'll sit and stare at my hands for hours, knowing that I should do the things I should do. That there are benefits to doing them and consequences to not doing them. But still, I need a little writing, a little orbiting, exploring, warming up, to get to that feeling where I can get my brain as a focused ray, not unlike from the light of the sun? to get this other work done so that I can go back and play.