Laska fathoms the Continuum
The Tide Turns
Welcome, brave creatives. Welcome to the designer’s table on the river in Little Silver, upriver from where our overwhelmed Laska had paddled her canoe out with the tide through some rough water and two bridges to where the Shrewsbury River begins to up to become Sandy Hook Bay.
Her head is heavy with worry and last night’s activities. Time on her river has, in the past, always revived her enough to carry on. She is counting on this paddle to afford some respite from Reagan era bullshit.
She sits and waits, with her longer than typical Sawyer wood paddle in her lap, off the Highlands for the tide to slacken. Shadows from the hills move east in the afternoon light. Her thoughts are still negative, but she cannot help but feel the energy. She ponders how silly the native peoples were, who may have believed they could call fish to them: at that very moment a large striped bass exits the water just feet from her craft, as the tide goes slack.
That bass might as well tail slapped Laska across the face. The intersection of presence and action penetrated her frazzled psyche. The odds. In her whole life she had never seen such a huge fish in this river, alive. She knew they were there, as Sparky, the old fisherman, now long gone, had unloaded fish like this in front of her. All of this and emotion rose up in her. As if she knew more than those ancients.
Laska was more than humbled, she was jubilant, with the possibility that she had it all wrong, and most importantly, she was not alone. Laska fathomed the continuum.
Happy Thanksgiving, brave creatives. May your consciousness be receptive to the waves of compassionate clarity the prankster photons signal as good vibrations, to all who ponder the possibilities, objectively. Listen carefully! Nature is reality.
Damn it, Barbara, who ate all the eclairs?