It has been nearly a full month since I arrived here in Arizona.
This morning early just as the sun had topped the peaks of the surrounding mountains I wandered repetitively around and around the pool's fenced perimeter sipping sustenance from a cup of hot black bitter tea while Eva snarled and growled and barked in canine joy as she energetically leapt about snapping at startled flies and instinctively chased the scurrying and obviously terrified lizards into patches of protective cactus plants.
A pair of faded turquoise sweat pants and a thin pullover white shirt labeled BUBBA Burgers with my feet encased within a pair of 20-year-old Florida deck shoes was sufficient for comfort in the warmth of the beginning day.
Above, an Air Force fighter jet arrowed through the upper atmosphere leaving behind a mere whisper of wartime warning. And then I saw in the distance a completely silent high-floating yellow balloon.
The silent balloon traversed the city of Tucson and I wondered if it was the same yellow balloon I'd seen previously when it landed at the base of one of the Santa Catalina mountains a short distance from where I stood among the landscaped cactus garden near the swimming pool.
I think that if someone were to offer me a free ride in the hurtling jet-plane or even in that huge meandering hot-air balloon I would with a painted-on smile graciously decline the invitation. Why would any thinking human being choose to drift above the relative safety of the surface of the Earth? To escape from what dreadful land-based threatening event or situation?
Why would a human being force one's self to exist within a narrow cone of safety to daily munch organic raisins and 100 percent natural pecans after a breakfast of a single Fresh California Navel Orange in place of Crispy Bacon and Sunny-Side-Up Butter-Fried Eggs and Hash Browns and Creamy-Golden-Slathered-Toast rather than face ALONE a hypothetically hostile and frighteningly unknown environment?
Why do we human animals do any of the curious things we do?
One could meditate endlessly on the various ramifications of such a conundrum without ever having reached a satisfactory conclusion
"They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude."