The Old and the New

Old things.  Old inventions.  Things once larger than life, that have now been swallowed by it.
Old machines.  Old iron.  Patina worn and shined by the opposable thumb of time, holding eternity against today's index finger.
To marvel.  To wonder.  To look deeply, as though sight extended from one's very heart, stretched thin to reach
Old things.  Old inventions.  Why do you call me?

I do not understand why antiquity kindles my heart.  Its every contrast is true, three-dimensional, its every angle encompassed, north to south, as though more real and steady than the present.  There is an eternity in me that explores for its beginning, and can't find the thing anywhere.  Yet, the map is lovely, and will one day reach its edge, I think.  The depth of the yearning says so.  I would rather not live, should touching eternity be left to the bookshelves of my childhood.

Simple machinery, simple living.  I yearn for less, and sometimes ameliorate with more. Oh, of nothing in particular.  So many side projects, so many hobbies.  I collected coins for a while, and then fossils and artifacts.  I still have the coins, and still collect artifacts.  They are old things, after all.

I photographed, but the world came with me, and threatened to spread away the wonder of it.  The best pictures are old ones, which are hard to take.

Backpacking.  Escaping to old ways.

Old things.  Kites.  Instruments, one at a time.  A trumpet, a guitar, a mandolin.  A pair of boxes.

Chairs.  Old chairs to be repaired on an old lathe.  With old tools that I cannot sharpen without old knowledge.

A bowl of old odds and old ends, on my desk.  They rest in hope, like me.

Time.  There is so much of it to be excavated, explored, spread out and stretched over.  Poured over until thin, until all the oils and all the sugars have bled away, though they never will.  There is not enough water to pour it sour, not enough cup to hold it all.  I linger over the counter, in soft meditation, soft resting in the antiquity of old machines and old eternity.  The old things that spark wonder and sadness at the new world.  The simple things, for my mind to run with, and in, and through.


I went to the movies with the Lord.  We watched Hugo, making old things new.  The Lord is always making old things new.  But he took me to the movies anyway, and there they were.

Old things.  Old inventions.  I rely on old inventions, old things.

To make my heart new, as it were.

---
I'm outside of Metto, on Coleman, in Mt P.  Their Italian Cappuccino, double shot, is very good.  A taste of rich old things, in the best of ways.