The sun has just, once again, come over the eastern horizon and spotted me sitting here in this coffee shop window. Summer mornings I pull the shade and hide from the sun, but the autumn sun is not so hateful. I don’t mind having her paint my silhouette against the western wall, so clear that I can see my shadow fingers dancing in my peripheral vision as I type these words. Meanwhile, in the shadow world, my shadow is typing about having suddenly sprung to life on the western wall, about watching my flesh and blood fingers typing in front of the bright, autumn sun. How curious to live in such accord with the sun and the western wall and the world of shadows. What a mad universe this is.
Dust dances all around us all the time, sloughed skin cells or microscopic plant particulate or tiny extra terrestrial matter that could, for all we know, be sloughed scales of extinct Martians or some other monster race from some other alien world. I heard somewhere that the world doubles in diameter every five minutes from the amount of dust that settles on it. Wait. That can’t be right. Where did I hear that? Maybe I’m remembering wrong. Meanwhile the sun exposes all the dust in my atmosphere and all the dust on my computer screen. It’s a small matter, this dust, but sometimes I worry about it. Sometimes my sinuses get scared and my nose runs. Still the dust dances, swirling all around like a dervish on his dizzy, dusty ṭarīqah.
Against the wall outside, various animals are bending and twisting and trying to cast shadows in the shape of human hands against the eastward-facing wall. It’s a game they play, rabbits and birds and snails and dogs. “See?” one says, “There is the thumb and there is the forefinger and my ear is the pinky. See?”
Hello, friends. I trust you’re well this sunny, shadowy, dusty day.