I feel safe in making the gross generalization that the days of yore, the ones where our survival as a parasitic species was circled round the wagons of sensitivity to the cycles of mother nature are behind us. There’s the notion that our cells come full circle every seven years which begs the question on a cyclical basis, “Who am I?” when doing the bundled like a burrito, or strewn like the contents of a handbag morning wakeup, alarm or no alarm.
Yesterday was hot, as in first stroll to the community pool, fry an egg on the sidewalk debate hot. I’ve never tried it, the egg bit but there’s not a shortage. Ended up sitting in the darkness of a friend’s backyard around a blazing fire pit one beer in. The highlight according to Henry being the spray of gasoline needed to start the fire. I missed that. There was something comforting about the warmth and light coming off the fire and the warmth of the day still in the air and on my back. Marshmallows were on fire, chocolate was exchanged, texting, conversations about Facebook passwords, jokes about condoms but that’s a thirteen year old’s prerogative. As convoluted as its become, new self or not I vote for the cellular memory of something ancient.