(continued)
For instance, now. This moment. Despite all intensities of focus, an empty espresso cup standing idly by, I still find myself uncontrollably intrigued by what seems to be God's latest attempt to boast his prowess to me at creating perfection in the feminine form. When the Greeks talked about form, or the elemental form, it was an idea at it's basest, most true and perfect definition. Something that everyone and everything strived for consciously, unconsciously, throughout their entire existence. Every rock trying to be and look like the most elemental form of a rock. The rock that everyone thinks about when they think about the idea of a rock. Every tree wants to be that tree that we see ourselves sitting under on a hot's summer's day in our mind's eye.
The problem for that tree and that rock is that is that they can never achieve this. Out of all the trees in the world, but one is the tree I see. The first tree that flashes to me, across my waking thought, I see. I don't even know if it's a real tree I see. Perhaps one from the past, or one from a dream. Some people think they know their tree. But presently, that tree is not the tree it used to be. The tree they remember, the tree they see. That tree is long gone, and even so more longs to be seen perfectly. As that form. The tree that we always see, awake or dreaming. The tree it used to be.
The problem for humanity is that this is all in our mind. And when I look up again, I see it. Perfection writhing low so that her shoulder blades push hard and pivot around the front edge of her chair. Her neck's arching to see whatever nonsense she and her companion are studying. And as she stretches and slides lower like the prettiest of metronomes, the bottom of her tight black tank catches, letting an angel's lower torso and rib inking breath in the slight breeze and sunlight air. Her hips thrust as she stretches, only to slide down again lower back onto her heels with her knees bent. And in yoga pants? Why, God? Why? Is that a little nose piercing right above your nostril? Stop it. Please. How's one ever to focus. One more glance. She's brown-eyed and smiling. And she can probably sense my aggravated distraction the way bears smell menstruation. Who studies like that? Unless she's one of those souls truly aroused by knowledge. I guess it could also be the coffee. Wait, no. Every one here has coffee. She's the only one I see hip-thrusting in her table space. It must be the knowledge. And the yoga pants. And I think shes older than me, but not by much. 'Tis cruel this God of mine, but more humorous I think, delighted by happiness and in love with beauty. Beauty in everything.
But by now, I'm used to her games. And as I think back, that awful sense comes over me that this is an event of marked regularity. To be used to her games, to that blooming distraction. Ugh. Such a thought of stark realization. It's something one tries not to dwell on, lest one wants to loose the wind in his sails. The somberness of the situation, and the reality of Greek philosophy. That the perfection that drives us is never achieved, no matter how many times it's chanced upon or observed. And it's not just aesthetic. The beauty of appearance is only an ingrained filter. Beautiful perfection is so much more. It's in a dream or locked in a memory. Something that will never be present, just always over the next ridge, or back behind the last one. Take a deep breath, and try to forget all this. Ignorance is bliss.
