Now that I have made the gesture of permanence, and gesture it is, I can, as the body holds the pose, holds still, riveted in aspiration to rootedness, allow my expression an ambivalence honest to it.
And in language mine: a bastard and regicidal English.
Sitting in a thermos on a patio table further insulated by the humid night following a hundred degree day is my first attempt at yoghurt from Zena's milk. She's an eager milker and has provided the first habit I have acquired, for milking her does not quite feel like an obligation, akin to showing up for work on time, and yet it is not quite voluntary either; if I do not milk her she will sicken. Perhaps the explanation is in the tangibility of the reward: in the shadeless white of her milk as it hides beneath its shift of froth.
Below is an attempt to capture the first full moon I have watched rise since I moved here for good (and ill; I mean many people inadvertent and advertent ill) with the small digital camera Mom recently purchased and which I almost automatically claimed.
I am comforted to perfection by reminder of Space, which the naked roundness of a full moon presents unavoidably, the illusion of all illusions shattered. It was not long before my attempt to capture the lunar event yielded a pinprick in the darkness.