The epiphany at Ballyholme Bay – Notes From The Boneyard

The epiphany at Ballyholme Bay…
Seriously. I came for the rain.
None was found.

We sought out every corner of the Emerald for 10 days while countered with countless winces in sullen search for such puddling.

Freshly-formed water falling freely from the sky still enchants after more than a 1/2 dozen decades circling the steamy sun.

Back home, the monsoon season was ripening from the Mexican storm engines straddling their way up across the border to dump its heft of swollen cloud.

It makes people happy back in Tucson. Rain is life. Folks literally dance in the street during its drenching. You can see ‘em at night in splashes of strobe lightning.

We must all be sun-damaged if one is to believe the European critics trying to blame the music that’s concocted there.

They just don’t have all the facts. Who has the time to figure it out at this point?

The days are numbered now.

There’s evidence of an end game.

Look around.

When ya start to feel lucky just to be alive at all is because the casino of existence is playing us and we all know the house always wins.

Anyway… Everything has its antidote.

Coffee is good to shake that sentiment back off to the crumbled corridors of ill-reported punishing sun. Here now, in lieu of rain, I was makin’ my way to the far side of the long crescent-shaped tide tickled beach that sprawled before me on the banks of Bangor. After a spell strolling, the chatter of children stole me from my thoughts. They were trying to dam a trickling stream that, in itself, insisted it could not be tamed.

The trickle kept breaking through their childish engineering and kept on moving with zombie momentum, encouraged by the gravity of the situation tilting to the sea.

I paused then-and-there. Watched how the trickle resembled the desert’s flash floods back home from a vantage point way up in the sky.

As the insistent flow notified any pondering pauser of its predicated purpose to become part of a larger scheme, one naturally of its own element, it then suddenly began to spangle with a startling sunlight reflecting upon it.

It riveted my eye, and rippled my heart.

I found myself doing that thing that humans do; applyling emotional significance and suspicious intent to a thing that has none.

You know what I mean… Like when we think dogs are smiling… but they’re not.

But, still, we really believe they are.

Or, when we blame a storm as being something angry… Which is really doubtful.

I mean… if anything, it might actually be happy with itself.

But no. That’s what I’m trying to say here: We mistakenly give these things emotivity.

Ask any pesky poet.

…They can’t help doin’ it.

But, when I’d try to stop myself from that habit now, another illumination sweeps over me, where there, surely, was really none.

There, in this sun-shining trickle felt like I was watching a current collection of souls transitioning from the living into the oceanic accumulation of those who’ve long since passed away through the ions of time when human existence first began.

‘Current’ being the operative word.

The extraordinary vastness of the salty sea readily accepting the sweet water trickle, no matter how childish the attempts were made to change its eventuality, begat analogy of all mankind. It didn’t seem so bad.

It made more sense seeing it like this; this illustration of where we go, and how we spangle getting there. It granted an understanding by illustration.

The patience of the drastic sea coming to meet our collective trickle half way then turned the tide of its poetic beauty just enough for one to feel the impending tinge of doom.

It was at that Pavlovian point that a warm pour from the taps of Fealty’s beckoned… As it should, in such reckonings of our capacity.

But never mind any of that.

Let’s talk about Lisdoonvarna, and the mystery of the Match Maker meriting in the reproductive assets of our species.

You go first…

– Howe Now