The stories we live by in a society, and as a civilization, are a cross-pollination of narratives, derived from age-old belief systems, traditions, rituals, religions and literature, tempered and adapted organically by modern epistemology, pedagogy, philosophy, cultural context and the purely experiential. There’s an inherent, and perhaps predictable narrowing, or reduction, of the “allowable” within these structures. And because of an inevitable tendency toward identity and ideology, our struggles individually and socially arise as and when this unconscious mechanism is either unwittingly or deliberately used against us.
Seagulls, other birds and sea lions call across the misty morning waters. Geese enter from the north. Two herons quietly soar by, not too high over the shore. Silent giants.
The clock in the square strikes a happy chime signaling 10am, then curiously shifts to a monotonous, somber bell to count out the hours. Even the clock seems to be disaffected by the persistent agitation that is covid, sighing as it goes through the motions, perhaps emptied of the usual spirit that would fill the space here with communal bustle and hubbub. The fountain nearby splashes meditatively, layering a touch of white noise onto the atmosphere.