Apparently, cavemen’s raptor breath stood in for weaponry before the axe. Plus, crushed tablets have shown signs that cave boys had been exchanging noxious fetidity with really young, warm-blooded—and sufficiently leg-and-tail-bound—pachyderms. But if, on the off-chance they enjoyed it, they would be lashed to a pet pterodactyl and sent abroad. Because of this, it became known that signs of them were in evidence in very early Toronto spoor.

Gentle souls should not be required to lift weights beyond their own. Stay light, but not so light as to end you up in Cuernavaca when you’d planned on Saskatoon. Either that or grow a Zapata moustache and walk very quickly with both hands on your ass, because you’ll never get a cab when you want it.

At the end of whatever you go in search of—there is you. The light behind it all. You are the wizard behind the curtain.

If you choose popularity as your primary condition in life, you may be greatly disillusioned.

WHAT WAS THAT? A perfect moment? Where did it come from, and why doesn’t it stay? Was it saying, “Perfection is possible, but that’s all you get until you know better?” All of a sudden, like that. If it had a voice, it would have said, “Nothing’s serious. I’m just saying ‘hello.’ Got to go now.” Had those moments, have you? The briefest of moments. Absolute serenity.

How about a string of them? No. Doesn’t work like that. It is what it is. But it knew exactly what it was doing—pass on a message that it wouldn’t repeat if you hadn’t the proper humanity to appreciate it, or could speak its language.

It had to be yours. Had to be. These are your insides. The party is yours. The candles, the guest list, you. However skimpy, short-lived in its patience. As if you were invited by accident. It’s happened that way on every other occasion. But normally it’s a flash of beauty, settling quickly, aspiring, promising to stay if you are strong enough to receive that exquisite moment before the door is shut to you again . . . or not!

Still there? Seamless, with no hint as to how or when it would slip away again. A moment that had shouldered aside anything even vaguely negative, lasing its way through boring sameness, stronger than the most stubborn ennui, as if fear has never been considered. Teasing at times: “Stay, we might as well be friends,” it seems to be saying. “Use me. Walk about inside me without fear of ever having to step outside ever again . . . or surrender to anyone. Think me! Inflate me till this tiny perfection becomes your norm, and you its Landlord. Indulge it—dispense it if you want—generously now, kindly now, while it remains determinedly yours.”

Never had that? Sorry. . . . Oh, you have. You hesitated there. I know—it doesn’t hang about.

 

In 1820, a classic statue was unearthed in Melos, Greece—Venus de Milo. Though an unmistakable masterpiece, the arms were missing. Many sought the reason why. Finally the most popular conclusion was that Aleandros of Antioch, its sculptor, couldn’t do hands, see?

You might be able to trust her, but her eyes are an off-ramp to the rest of her face—catching any and all of the action she considers beneath her.

To open the door, one has to turn the knob.

You won something! Bravo! Don’t forget how you did it.

Gentle souls should not be required to lift weights beyond their own. Stay light, but not so light as to end you up in Cuernavaca when you’d planned on Saskatoon. Either that or grow a Zapata moustache and walk very quickly with both hands on your ass, because you’ll never get a cab when you want it.