The great continuity bazaar
From "Some Stones Don't Roll"
It is 8:43 AM. It is 2014. The tub drips. The traffic moves. I have family scattered all over the place. My dear boy is in Nevis. My youngest is in Bristol the UK one with her hub and the two beautiful children, girls. My other daughter still in Massachusetts, a minister no less. Her daughter in Chicago, another closer to home. My angel is across town at the laundromat. I do no work. I am a spoiled boy. Nothing I do all day is work. It is a stab. Did I say stab? Yes, it is a stab at form, creation, connection, nowness. No, get it straight. The NOW is stopping all that. Everything. Closer to what goes on when I attend to the drip and the traffic and the flexibility of fingers on plastic. Tub dripping. Life ambling. I could not abide the reality of those I did not will to know. I am better among the crowd of strangers. One day, it was Christmas, I drove to NYC to the Port Authority with my Marveltone guitar and sang "I Am a Pilgrim". And a stranger. Travelling through. This wearisome land. Then I turned around and drove back. Acts and road. Those were the days. It is my fantasy that if we come back at all, we do so as entities who can access every memory by thought alone. Everything we ever did, went through. Every conversation. Nietzsche's eternal return. My ultimate universal judgment. We will all be condemned or privileged to know every element of our lives. Whatever existence we have that has a future is a mystery. But there is that capacity to grasp every moment, every nuance of every time one summons up. Would Bill know I had sung Charley Pride in my silent head sitting next to him in the car? No. Could he intervene and ask me a question? No. He would merely see into the car and perhaps surmise things in the light of what happened. Oh no. He could also access this truth telling. Yes for now is this already in memory and my imaginary entity can access anything that has transpired in the great continuity bazaar.
It is 8:43 AM. It is 2014. The tub drips. The traffic moves. I have family scattered all over the place. My dear boy is in Nevis. My youngest is in Bristol the UK one with her hub and the two beautiful children, girls. My other daughter still in Massachusetts, a minister no less. Her daughter in Chicago, another closer to home. My angel is across town at the laundromat. I do no work. I am a spoiled boy. Nothing I do all day is work. It is a stab. Did I say stab? Yes, it is a stab at form, creation, connection, nowness. No, get it straight. The NOW is stopping all that. Everything. Closer to what goes on when I attend to the drip and the traffic and the flexibility of fingers on plastic. Tub dripping. Life ambling. I could not abide the reality of those I did not will to know. I am better among the crowd of strangers. One day, it was Christmas, I drove to NYC to the Port Authority with my Marveltone guitar and sang "I Am a Pilgrim". And a stranger. Travelling through. This wearisome land. Then I turned around and drove back. Acts and road. Those were the days. It is my fantasy that if we come back at all, we do so as entities who can access every memory by thought alone. Everything we ever did, went through. Every conversation. Nietzsche's eternal return. My ultimate universal judgment. We will all be condemned or privileged to know every element of our lives. Whatever existence we have that has a future is a mystery. But there is that capacity to grasp every moment, every nuance of every time one summons up. Would Bill know I had sung Charley Pride in my silent head sitting next to him in the car? No. Could he intervene and ask me a question? No. He would merely see into the car and perhaps surmise things in the light of what happened. Oh no. He could also access this truth telling. Yes for now is this already in memory and my imaginary entity can access anything that has transpired in the great continuity bazaar.
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