I'm in North Carolina and it's a full moon.

I decide to throw knives in the dark.

I am living in a cabin in the woods and I hear crickets at nite. The occasional train with industrial wind chimes forging ahead moving away somewhere in the distance.

There are three log rounds and several chewed up one-by-sixes drilled and stacked together and as far as I knew previously, actually sticking a knife in the log round constitutes success.

It is silly to practice throwing in the dark. I can not see eight feet in front of me. It is silly, but it is forgiving, for "how could I possibly expect to hit my target consistently in this light?" So I'm throwing at something I can't see and just feeling the steel blade roll, roll, roll off my finger. Listening to a heavy blade in wood thunk stick. Ah sweet success with gentle autumn wine - a shiraz - I think they call it petit because they use little grapes. Not to be confused with scrawny grapes. Robust, powerful, little knife throwing grapes.

So I'm sipping wine all alone in a rocking chair feeling my fingers gingerly inebriated from only a half glass of wine. The reality of being this clean and healthy.

I'm in North Carolina and I'm feeling very good about life and performance and health and love. I feel open and supported and invited and celebrated. I'm celebrating the feel of the tip. The sharp point as it rolls off my finger thunk right where I intended it to thunk.

By the full moon light, I thunk I finally know how to aim.

0 comments Links to this post