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Click off the work clock 0

Yo Shaw,

We’re back. I’m in my apartment right now, remembering our trip as if I had dreamed the whole thing. Nothing like a three-week vacation to cleanse the mind and purify the bloodstream. With twenty-one days I was able to click off the work clock and let my soul float free and circle stars. Often I just sat around and thought about things, and some of the things I thought about were how high and low the sky is, how tall or small trees can be, and how indisputably divine silence is.

Of course, we traveled a lot, visiting Tel Aviv, Haifa, Akko, Tzfat, Rosh Pina in Galilee, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea at Ein Bokek, and Dahab on the Red Sea in Egypt. Though our vacation is over I’m glad to be back. After all, my life is here, job included. I think it was Ogden Nash who said (or wrote), “If you don’t want to work, you have to work to earn enough money so that you won’t have to work.” Well, I like to work, and though I wouldn’t mind having so much money that I didn’t need to work, I’d work anyway. And that’s one of the reasons I’m glad to be back.

Meanwhile, I’ve recently reread several books by Henry Miller. After The Colossus of Maroussi and Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch, I reread Stand Still Like the Hummingbird. Miller’s books aren’t really books, not in the traditional sense. They are stories of timelessness, wisdom and experience. His books are pregnant with inspiration, and read like a bucking bronco that breaks out of the corral at a rodeo, ejects its rider, and then transforms into a firebird, a phoenix, and blazes into the sky leaving a trail of smoke behind. Miller’s words are charged with salvation and sprinkled with deliverance. They sing the story of alive. When I read Miller I never know what might be around the next corner. One minute it’s the mismatched size of a man’s testicles, and then I turn the page and he’s dancing a jig, trotting up and down with his hands tucked into his armpits, squatting like a chicken and cluck cluck clucking. Miller’s heart beats in your face. He’s primal, primitive, a human rooster who cackles like a screaming banshee, but a banshee of freedom and enlightenment. Reading Miller is the perfect companion for this glass of wine I’m drinking right now. Lucky for me, there’s a lot left.

I’ll drink to that.

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