Tony's house on an urban street in Exeter backed onto a pasture. Large ungainly placid piebald creatures would nibble at the edge of his patio. It's why he liked the house, he told me. A deep affection for cows.
Not what I'd have thought his spirit-beast. If Tony ruminates it's on the fly. Almost 600 books! He'd have to have been in constant motion. Not to mention the need to deal with so many restless egos. Oh I can't resist—he must be able to summon his inner cow's buddha-nature.
His other creature—the one I'd have guessed—is the jackrabbit, or maybe the daw. Quick things that notice everything, restless eye and mind. On my one afternoon Tony decided that I needed to spend some time on the moor. I can't remember if it was Exmoor or Dartmoor. A dash through narrow lanes, park the car, and off on foot for a one-hour tour. I'm a good hiker, but I didn't have the shoes for it, and I scrambled and slid over the large boulders we needed to cross, trailing after at jackrabbit speed. A bit of archaeology—the foundations of the pitiful huts of tin miners, who scrounged a living on the edge of their culture in the 13th century. What language did they speak, Old English or Cornish? Beyond the reach of their overlords, but at a cost.
The mind, alert, hovers above layers of cultures—Latin American, German, English, Chinese—invested in each, and then another, as the moment demands.
And what a pleasure for all of us to be along for the ride.
Not what I'd have thought his spirit-beast. If Tony ruminates it's on the fly. Almost 600 books! He'd have to have been in constant motion. Not to mention the need to deal with so many restless egos. Oh I can't resist—he must be able to summon his inner cow's buddha-nature.
His other creature—the one I'd have guessed—is the jackrabbit, or maybe the daw. Quick things that notice everything, restless eye and mind. On my one afternoon Tony decided that I needed to spend some time on the moor. I can't remember if it was Exmoor or Dartmoor. A dash through narrow lanes, park the car, and off on foot for a one-hour tour. I'm a good hiker, but I didn't have the shoes for it, and I scrambled and slid over the large boulders we needed to cross, trailing after at jackrabbit speed. A bit of archaeology—the foundations of the pitiful huts of tin miners, who scrounged a living on the edge of their culture in the 13th century. What language did they speak, Old English or Cornish? Beyond the reach of their overlords, but at a cost.
The mind, alert, hovers above layers of cultures—Latin American, German, English, Chinese—invested in each, and then another, as the moment demands.
And what a pleasure for all of us to be along for the ride.