Early morning thoughts while pictures beam in from France

This morning I am in a happy place. It is an intersection. A listening post.

The Tour de France is on TV, and that is a thrill itself. Getting up early on a long weekend Monday to watch the colours of the peloton's men and machines stream and curve through the countryside is time in front of the monitor well spent. I enjoy parades, and bicycles, and TV in the sun.

With a mug of coffee, and a book and a sharpened pencil as the broadcast flows in.

This morning, the book is Trickster Makes The World by Lewis Hyde. The open pages resemble a gravesite I saw embedded into the earth at the Hillcrest cemetery. The shaft of sunlight stares across the printed words. They are worth standing in front of and staring at.
Structures always arise from exclusion. Think, for example, of how one might go about designing a flag. This world has endless color; the palette of greens in field and forest is boundless, as is that of water under changing skies. To make a flag, we select only two or three of the colors available and from the infinite ways we might arrange them we settle on a single one. Only by such narrowing can the flag acquire identity. Then it means something. Then we can recognize it, salute it, be its heroes, keep it out of the dirt. 
A flag, Hyde says, is a particularity struck from the vastness. So is a gravesite, I believe.

A flag against the sky, a grave marker against the earth, words against the page, a bicycle rider inscribed on the fields of Moselle, these are all particularities and vastnesses that can be read together, wonderfully.


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