saturday

It is a lazy staruday morning, and I hear that up north the fog has come to templeton, that in my hometown, england's weather has settled like a blanket, coveirng the low buildings and oak trees and slow moving cars on the two-lane country roads. But I am further down the coast than they, and the bright sun has already overtaken my back porch, heating the metal arms of the deck chairs and the water waiting in the slinking green hose.

Plato says that there are three things, at least. There is being, there is becoming, and there is something in between, something which ever is and ever changes. He calls this the receptacle, the mother of the child which is becoming. Al Geier, the humblest scholar I've met, calls the first thing 'papa being'. It is the father who, with the help of the mother, makes becoming possible. Becoming, it turns out, does not have much existence of its own, for it is like the reflection of a thing in a mirror. Take away the reflected thing, and take away the mirror, and where is the reflection? Had it any being of it's own?

Perhaps the fog up north is bringing being to the low buildings and oak trees and the slow moving cars on the two lane freeways. Perhaps weather is an image of that third thing. Perhaps just outside my window, nature is being glorified.