Some mornings words are mine, the way a costume really fits an opera singer—the amused buttons shine as objects do, the little Schopenhauer eyelets of the tunic take the words in.
And Lordy! My voice is big, at least for a minute. This is not Romanticism but the business of ordinary clothing. All word-buttons are acquainted with the moon’s kiss. That’s how it is. This is a laughable fact. I write: mitten. My Finnish grandfather stirs. Though he’s been dead for sixty years he says: hock. Horses and mittens and legs and winter mornings and boyhood. That is how it is. And you can tip toe or jump up and down—it doesn’t matter, the word-hocks-buttons-horses-moon/opera is alive, both with and without you. And so this is what I love about mornings.
Mark Twain wrote: “If it’s your job to eat a frog, it’s best to do it first thing in the morning. And If it’s your job to eat two frogs, it’s best to eat the biggest one first.” He was right about this of course. He was right to imply that all mornings are not equal. This is why I started out saying “some mornings”—some mornings words are mine; some mornings the word-hocks-buttons-horses-moon/opera is all about. And then there’s the morning when you must eat the big frog.
In general terms its best to eat the legs first. You also need a glass of water. And though you might want to sing about the tragedy of the moment, its good to wait. The words aren’t’ yours yet. So I’ll be the first to admit the happy eyelets of the tunic are not always so, and the man inside the tunic must necessarily, some mornings, choke and gulp. That’s how it is among human beings. And the world goes on being itself, acquainted with the moon’s kiss.
Planet of the Blind 