Venture

The devastating tornado earlier this week in Moore, Oklahoma, is, to me, evidence that it is logically impossible for an all-powerful, all-good God to exist.  If He were really omnipotent and omnibenevolent, He could have and would have stopped the twister short of destroying that school and killing those kids.

However, there are mid-spring evenings like this most recent Thursday in Seattle that make me believe there could be a supreme being of some sort who’s awfully strong after all, and does try His best to do the right thing when He can.

Suppose at the cost of Tornado Alley, you’re able to manifest a world where toy boats go full size on a body of shimmering water that gets to be witness to an almost full moon rising and a fuzz-rock sun setting simultaneously. 

It’s not creating a stone so heavy you can’t lift it, but still, it ain’t bad.

Perhaps all-powerful is too much to ask for.  Perhaps it’s sufficient to be awesome enough to create a protected bluff high atop a continent’s near edge with options like a path through the woods for adventuring on as a means of access.

And maybe all-good sets too high a standard.  Maybe it’s enough to have made possible landscapes that turn golden as the day comes to and end and beer in cans that can be consumed by upright mammals who use language to communicate in the afterglow.

The Universe doesn’t ask for more from itself, so why should observers?  Enough is already too much to be believed, so how about simple gratitude for all that is?

Bottle rockets get old and turn loud but the experience of experience always is new. 

A fire might have been nice, but God knows, there are times when holding off the rain all night, just for benefit of some miscreants riding bicycles in a second-tier city on one tiny corner of the globe is plenty.

Who says miracles aren’t real?

Ribbit

photo by joeball

There’s probably way less difference between the conversations of frogs and those of humans than we think.
 
I know that if you wander off is a bit, you’ll find a sweet spot distance at a balance point between the two where the sounds harmonize perfectly, in pitch, tone, and volume. So why not subject matter, too?

Also, it’s clear that we have no more influence, via our thoughts, on the world than does the impetus behind all that croaking. Listening to the echoes in my mind, I surely can’t tell the difference between what I was hoping for and what actually happened.

Perhaps it is the case, as was pointed out, that the only real distinction between ourselves and our amphibian brethren is that we can make fire and they can’t. I’ll buy that. That’s the spark of human consciousness.

Culture’s ability to pass along the message of fire is probably, as Prometheus’ tasty liver illustrates, its number one accomplishment. So, why not, as tehJobies seemed to suggest while hefting the box of Duraflame logs, maximize BTU’s whenever possible?

One thing’s for sure: the higher the flaming Jenga pile rises, the louder our own singsong becomes. I’ll bet the same thing’s happening throughout the melodic marshlands.

The next moment is forever around the corner, so it’s remarkable when one can be sufficiently immersed in the symphonic cacophony that the present sounds are plenty for future and past, as well.

Frogs become princes become frogs all over again.

It's all about being there as it unfolds, especially if you get to be surprised.

Stephen said that if you think of Professor Dave with your heart, he’ll eventually appear and while I’m not sure that always happens, I do love the idea of hearts with minds, because, after all, what else are we expressing as we pedal to conflagrations and circle about noisily than those thoughts which form in our core and rise to the surface in unison, unbound?

Vivid

Photo by joeball

One of the longstanding questions in philosophy has to do with the metaphysics of color.  You can ask the traditional “if a tree falls in the forest” question about it: suppose there were no beings in the world with the ability to perceive color; would the world still be colored?

Imagine a long time ago, (even before Derrick was drunk) before there were any living things; was the sky blue and the sea green?  If the appearance of color depends upon the experience of an observer, then apparently not.

But it’s hard to believe that even if no one had been around to observe it, that the colored pencil shadings of the evening’s slowly-setting sun would not have been equally vivid.

For the British empiricist, George Berkeley, the solution is easy: to be may be to be perceived, but, fortunately, God’s always around doing the perceiving.  And since He never closes his divine eyes, color—and for that matter, shape and number—are always there.

And this, perhaps, is another way of saying that even way more earthly—and far more myopic eyes—like my own, are opened ever wider with every aspect of the ride, starting with the impressive sight of Long Island Ice Teas (‘not for the faint of heart,” according to the bartender) to bike gang flags flapping in the breeze to fires that make their own pit as if by magic.

Ultimately, there’s more to see than meets the eye, which is, perhaps, another way of noticing that perception involves a more robust conception of sight, one that includes the feel of the air on your skin, the pounding in your eardrums at another yelled “YOLO,” the scent of burning wood, (that wisely ends up not migrating after all to another location,) and even the taste of various intoxicants that contribute to an already intoxicating night out on two wheels.

You gotta see it to believe it, and even then, it remains unbelievable.

Bounty

photo by joeball

“Don’t believe anything anyone tells you” is paradoxical advice. 

So, we may as well disregard anything we tell ourselves except the suggestions we don’t endorse—like throwing mini-kegs in fires and only regretting the errors we fail to make.

Which is why, in part, I’d have been kicking myself had I not taken the opportunity to pedal south after a lovely dinner en famille to link up with the ride even though doing so required a mini-bushwhack through the trees following a wrong turn in an area I thought I knew as well as the back of my hand, but I guess it’s more like the back of my neck.

Anyway, the assembled miscreants were easy enough to find, especially as I pedaled closer and could hear repeated cries of “No, Derrick, no!” wafting on the breeze. 

That drew me to where I could see the figures around the fire but not the preferred line of egress.  Ultimately, the direct route seemed the most efficient, if not the most prudent, and while I skittered a bit on unseen roots, I was soon rewarded with a hearty hello and imbibables that made the lovely evening even lovelier.

Picnic tables were groaning with bounty and it seemed like most folks had a pretty good head start on me even though the aforementioned meal included generous portions of the selfsame libations as those arrayed about.

I edged my way into a number of conversations while keeping a watchful eye out for flying marshmallows and exploding beer cans.

For once, suds held out longer than fire and I tucked one for the road into my bag as yet another mini-mortar exploded over the lake signaling five minutes to departure one more time.

A zesty jaunt on Lake Washington Boulevard and a reasonably protective pelaton along Rainier led to a fairly large contingent invading the favored karaoke joint near midnight. 

I had the requisite arrival beer and then headed home, no regrets.

Bountiful.