Funny, I really thought I wrote this morning. Ah, slacking does odd things to one’s mind and awareness.
And slack I did, completely without merit. My success of the day was watching a fairer portion of the twilight zone marathon than I have in many, many years. I would have preferred a Rocky and Bullwinkle marathon (which happened when I was in Chicago, and ranks as one of the highlights of my television viewing life), but this was nice.
They were made in the late 50s and early 60s, full of odd mystery, subtle horror, and surprisingly moralistic messages. That is the reason remakes don’t work. People write new episodes with the twists and turns but forget that the Zone was really a half hour parable. I even heard the Gospel message presented (which can’t be taken for something else when a character talks about God sending his son to die on a cross for the sake of everyone’s sins, and everyone has spent the last two thousand years learning to believe in him).
Rod Serling opens the show, cigarette in hand, setting up the premise of the extremely virtuous story he wrote.
This couldn’t be done today. Not because it wouldn’t make money or be popular, but because there is no connecting of a Twilight Zone concept with conservative morality and indeed even faith. Ah well, that’s why reruns are nice treats.
Later in the day I stood on the deck, to survey the nest. Certainly, the fledglings are soon to leave. There was one, illuminated by the setting sun in the west which made the dead pine dark gold, and highlighted the pitch black of the feathers. The baby raven, same size as its parents, was perched on the big bowl of the nest, about a hundred feet above the air, upon the lowest branches of this mostly shorn tree, flapping its fully grown wings, though without either strength or confidence to take the leap out.
It turned its head, and the sun glistened bright off its glossy black beak. After a few minutes, having exercised its nascent limbs, the young bird disappeared back down into the nest, still chattering with its sibling(s).
And the vacationers are gone, the regulars here settling back into a more favorable rhythm, valuing the quiet and consideration of others who call this mountain home.
I frittered away this day, to be sure, letting this be a holiday weekend as a whole, now ready to leap back into those tasks which bring me closer to the goal.
I’ve sat around, now I am ready to run, to sprint, once more.