Obviously, the squirrels could simply go into their holes and sleep until we pass. Following Gypsy's example, I decided to spend the next morning at home. I woke early, felt the sun streaming in through the slats in my shuttered window, and experience what perhaps is a small part of Gypsy's bliss. Time is a stick of incense that burns without being consumed. Mornings stretch out and crack their spines with the yogic impassivity of house cats.
Afternoons bulge with a succulent ripeness, like fat peaches.
Greenwald has an apt description of the relentless routine that I was at this very moment trying to escape. And, yes, I see that like Gypsy, I seem to need to piss on things to get past them. There are deeper reasons to travel - itches and tickles on the underbelly of the unconscious mind. We go where we need to go, and then try to figure out what we're doing there. That passage brought to mind my yearly visits to Canyonlands National Park in Utah.