Charles Kruger


It is foggy today. Birds caw loudly. The sky out my window is spongy. I discover a bungalow I haven’t noticed before, gray and white shuttered. The roof is gray with a green tinge and a turret.

I am a looker, always searching things out, I suppose, even at forty six. I am still trying to find myself. Common sense says people should look for themselves as youngsters but such self-indulgent nonsense should be abandoned by middle age in the name of maturity. I reject that. I hope I am still trying to find myself when I die. The inner landscape of my soul is vast, with an endless supply of new geographies. I want never to pitch a tent, or build a citadel, and announce: Here I am. I have found myself and will wander no more.

My wandering mood fits well with the fog outside. I allow time to slow and search out a new rhythm in this daily writing chore. A slow, foggy, syrupy and voluptuous indulgence in the inner voice that slides about in the slippery fog of my reflective mood. I am swimming idly in an ocean of words and images, a Caribbean of the spirit, warm and gentle. I feel my mouth curving in a gentle smile and even chuckle out loud. I dive beneath the surface of the warm salty sea of consciousness and glide about as a merman with the sleek skin of a dolphin — gray — like the turreted bungalow — swishing my back side and soaring along the fantastic currents, careless of the surface world with its changing weather. It is silent. It is a sighing silence, a sort of soundless sound, a chord to perfectly harmonized that the sound becomes inaudible, transparent, transcendent. Not outside me, but inside, a balanced hum which is everywhere — sound and silence itself. It is consciousness. It is the OM of the Hindus, this drumming ocean in which I rest and which I also energetically investigate.

Pop! My merman surfaces, and I gulp with delight the moist air and kick my human legs. Sound once again becomes sound, differentiated. Birds whistle, traffic passes. I am back at my writing table and see two pages filled with ink.

Out my window, I notice a gray bungalow with gabled green roof and a turret.

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