Mid-December Thoughts About the Eccentricities of the Present

 

My dog is getting old. No, he is old already.

When he was a puppy, I had to learn about him so I can keep up with his stubbornness. An Akita expects you to understand him. There is no compromise – he knows he can get what he wants given his size, strength and street smart.

And for 6 years, I was the one who searched. And he patiently waited for me to find.

…  It will be Christmas Day soon, and a new year will show up. My dog will be older and I will wonder if I learned enough.

So, this morning very early when he woke me up by vocalising his dreams, I got up, made coffee and sat by the window to count the stars. It seemed like all the stars were brighter at 3am, and the cold desert night had frozen them into their usual places in the high skies.

I do not look back at an ending year and wonder what happened, what I did make happen, nor what has happened to me. I just keep my sails tight and continue upon that river. But I do secretively return to the shore of that personal interior river, we all have. Where upon its banks we recall the mossy rocks we climbed barefoot. Where we have left prints walking, alone or with others. With someone who did not mind walking along.

It is that interior river Heraclitus described best:

“No man ever steps in the same river twice

For that river is not the same river and he’s not the same man”

I learned about that reality early in life. Still, it feels comforting to go back to that river, from time to time, knowing that the river is not the same, and that I have changed. 

As long as the river is not dry.

… My dog is getting old. And after almost a decade of daily experiences, I have come to realise that while he helped me appreciate that discovering and celebrating the eccentricities of present moments can be achieved best through routine behaviors.

Because we know we can return to routine for respite, while getting ready for the next eccentric discovery. Or thought. Or behaviour.

 

December 18, 2025

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025

We Do Not Live in Reality, We Live in What We Think Reality Is (William Blake, 1757-1827)

 

It was winter outside and I sat by the fire. I have my favorite seat, one that has taken my shape over time. This time, I chose a rocking chair that has its own swing pattern no matter who sits in it.

And I looked at the fire. And this time, at a new angle, the fire looked new, and the wood log showed me its new face.

It was a face I might have known. It was a face that looked away from me, pensive and capricious. And the fire played with the long hair that adorned that face. In red and gold, as warm as a frigid memory.

And I saw a woman's face, a body I might have seen once. On a warm August day, when the summer rain became the earth’s aroma.

And made me who I always was.

 

December 13, 2025

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025

Desert Morning

 

 

The smallest pebble

Makes a lasting ripple

In the river if

The water remembers the promise

To take the summer rain

Drops

To the

Sea

 

 

About the photo: When my dog and I came back from the morning walk, there was a young buck atop my house’s river stones wall. We all looked at each other waiting to see who would make the first move. During that short time span, I “wrote” those lines in my mind…

December 13, 2025

© Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2025