WHAT DO WE CARE ANYWAY JIM? (PROSAIC, AND MAKING UP WORDS LIKE UNSYMBOLIC, UNAMBITIOUS, BUT THAT IS OKAY TOO, BECAUSE LIKE THE MAN SAID, ‘AH WHAT DO WE CARE?’)

Trees and tree stumps. The crowds held back from a bit of rain. No thunder or lightning. And the rain then ceases. There is a lady who has too many dogs, about fifteen small dogs, toy dogs or smaller actually, - weird dogs, - and they are untrained and incessantly bark, growl, snarl. So annoying to encounter. They are more like lively rats than dogs, - and she probably loves them so, - her life and purpose. But we avoid her. Unfortunately we ran into her on a small narrow path, - and still, - we try to move far to the side to let her pass. The homeless man and his car have disappeared. 

The sky, overcast, glum, grey. Some haystacks in the distant-distance, - even they look a bit sad, water-logged for the night’s rain. The told perennial place, sales place, that I never went to but saw from the street, is for sale. A grandmother is with her grandson on a long and barren street that is closed save for through traffic, but she is having a hard time handling him, - and he weeps and moans when he has to go to the side of the road. Someone has dug up much interlocking stones and left them for whoever might want them. I consider taking one large round and interesting stone but leave it. I remember, and know not how it is relevant, the recent reading of Jesus in the apocryphal gospels so called where he says the stone the builders have discarded,- that is the corner stone. I leave the discarded stone anyways, - leave all the stones, and move on.

Inside forests the mosquitoes have flourished like parts of some devil’s army and they bite my hands though I

am covered in clothing otherwise. They still go for the hands and the cheeks and they bite so much that it hurts more than itches. There is beauty though- the open field at the end, a bird waits, some strange flowers sway in the day, if it could be called the day, - the world never really woke up. Colors, - some yellow- are nice enough. A butterfly, orange and black, on a sand pit. We almost run into one another in the air. The canines are happy, - a good gait, run around, roll, sniff, think, play a bit. We look ‘round, placid, languid, day-dreamy, nicely unambitious, not part of the secular world, not even part of the sacred world, just ourselves, unsymbolic, maybe unenlightened, but that is okay too. We are just a man and some dogs going for a walk in the early afternoon to get some air and see if we see any sights and sometimes we dream or at least I know I dream of the actual sea, really.

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