The Spirit at the Root of Things gets moody.
It’s partly that there’s nothing much to do. He
isn’t felt or seen or known by any thing he’s
at the root of – which after all is every thing.
Things take care of things quite well. Why
they need a Spirit he can’t tell. What could care
that he was there? But there he is. Naked as
a jaybird – though despite his being at the Root
of Things, even things like Sky – he doesn’t fly,
which jaybirds, which are also things presumably
he’s at the root of, do. The Spirit at the Root
of Things feels as inert as turnip stew. Except
that turnips are acknowledged. So is stew.
If any one of us were he, we’d be moody too.