Clear winter dusk. Trees silhouetted, housefronts held very sharp as if in a jar of waterglass; sound, though, seems muffled, set at a distance. A few kids shouting in the alleys by the railway. The usual helicopter. Critchley the squirrel (“world merely is”) has tapped a source of peanuts & is streaking back & forth across the balcony & up over the roof, in an attempt to harvest the lot before nightfall.
I like that you named your squirrel.
And can recognise him, too.
I believe Critchley to be a she. I have no convincing evidence of this, neither am I sure she’s the same squirrel every time. Whatever: she ferociously acts out the world being what it is, which is, increasingly, what I like about it best.
Perhaps it is the Platonic form of squirrel.
that’s rather Zen of you
I had a similar thought. An Ur-squirrel, perhaps even an Uber one. Or knowing how they behave, a squirrella de tutto squirelli. Perhaps Mike should start counting the spoons. . .
Hi Mia: maybe it’s the automatic Zen of getting old…
I hear you—the old, sanded-down ego!