Fugit

photo by joeball

We are reminded by the perennial philosophies that all is ephemeral.

The wisdom traditions underlying Hinduism and Buddhism, for instance, tell us that all of nature—what the sages of the sacred texts known as the Vedas refer to as prakriti—is constantly in transition.  The Universe itself passes into existence in this form and then out again, before reforming once more, endlessly repeating for all eternity. 

What we take to be our self, say the Buddhists, is nothing more than a continually changing set of experiences; there is no essential, unchanging core to be found; our consciousness is a stream with no deep pool as its source we might say.

One finds this view in Western philosophy, too, going all the way back to the pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus, who famously contends that all is flux; that we can never step into the same river twice; there is no “there” there that’s always there.

Still, this is little consolation in the real world when an old familiar watering hole and gathering place shuffles off its mortal coil so to speak. 

Sure, nothing lasts forever (except embarrassing pictures and posts on the internetz), but it is a little sad to note the immanent demise of a comfortable go-to spot which—although far from perfect—has sufficed as a place to congregate, toss back a few, and gather sustenance for the late-night ride home.

Of course, it’s important to keep things in perspective, which is why riding once more (for only the second time this year by my count) to an abandoned road above our fair city’s industrial sanitation heart in order to raise a conflagration from freely available combustibles is recommended. 

No doubt the day will come when there’s nothing but aluminum cans and cardboard to ignite, but for now, at least, we can be made warm by what’s at hand.

It’s literally a figurative way of seeing it; the metaphor of fire is actually what it is.