The juxtaposition of "simple" and "damage" is where the greatness lies in this line. "Simple" is such a light and easy word. It's as easy as turning my head and looking out to the blue sky that lines the yellow ridge beyond my balcony. It is the simplicity of that distance and the emotion I incur when I am there, in the hot sun, along a dirt trail, at the highest point a man can go into the sky in this area. And "damage" perhaps is that I might go there before I looked for a job, attending to my body ravaged by stents and a bad heart and so as a form of progress a good thing on its face. But, I am not supposed to be there. The mechanization of thought, or decisions, "Yes/no" can be as wrong as one false move.
"simple machines can do great damage" When I think of a simple machine, I think of high-gloss white enamel and stainless steel, an organic turn, but sharp edges somehow curved out of danger. But, they are usually weighty. I work in a restaurant, or at least I did. Mixing bowls, stainless steel counters, $30,000 self-cleaning ovens, refrigerators, freezers, the handle of a dishwasher sprayer. The dishwasher itself. These things aligned tiled walls. They did their jobs. They washed the dishes, they kept the food cold, they stirred the ingredients, they looked cool, usually simple facades.
I marvel at the generally simple designs of everything that seems to work. And I look at these, or at least remember these because I have been in restaurants for 40 years and I wonder at their innocence. Some have been there longer than I have been alive.
And then you say, "the heart pumps dread." It does, indeed. At least my consciousness of it whirls about. I pay attention to it because it once gave up on me. And formed an aneurysm that was about to explode. At least for me, it doesn't so much as pump dread, as I love the idea that it is still working, but it is dreadful that it might stop again. As I run, I can feel its tempo, its gait. I can tell you when it's at 161BPM or thereabouts. But, the more I run, the less I can tell, because it is getting better than my legs that seem to whine. The more often I run, the less often it beats. My resting heart is 55. The more I run, the lower this rate goes. I ran/walked for 6.2 miles the other day on a rim trail that circled a reservior. I was as high as the hills go in this area and the trail goes up and down. I have never been in better shape, but then I have never been mindful of self-regulation, which is dreadful.
My mind churns words, as I run.
My teeth, at night grind
Mainly, because as I said, I have no idea what are false moves, what are true. But, I am not supposed to worry. For worrying is a sin, which is something an Iranian-Muslim said, which I crave. The idea that I should not doubt what is natural inclination is freeing. I should be looking for a job, but I want to be here. Standing before you hearing the water fill the pool in the background.
I see the stapler driving the point.
The stapler weighted by its handle,
Again metal turned within itself so as not to injure.
But, of course, there is the mouth and if you get under it, it can inflict a surprising pain, which is almost painless, but shocking. That, perhaps, is the compound feeling, the lack of simplicity. It penetrates harshly. It is a complex fear and the thought of it can make my legs wobble.
Yes, so many are ignorant, so many simple people can't wrap their minds around another person's desire for equality, for example. How they can't make this or that other than about themselves. It makes me angry. And I see it in their eyes, when I make my pseudo-scientific arguments for equality, quote fallacies to explain their deficits, and they really aren't capable of handling so many considerations. They are the oversized balloons at parades floating by.
My mouth cringes at the thought of these dead-ends.
I am bonded to self, just as they are, and I turn out to be the dry spider. That man who tells another man that he is a troll. How did I get so self-righteous? How did I become so simple, mechanical, and damaged?
