WOODS HOLE WINERY
As long as there is a knot hole in the wine barrel, however far fetched, there is a reason for it to leak. It might be judged a freak accident. Then dribbling wine would be cause for pondering, within bounds . . .
After tossing this trapeze, hope I've done you proud, Muse. Thing is, I'm a monkey in a tree. No net.
Hanging over an edge of the world brings this sense of suspended animation. What anyone would expect, given the circumstances. There are so many sides to it. Take that painting showing in the museum next door. The beginning is far away from the end, or possibly it wasn't imagined. Maybe only it knows. Explanations simply lack the necessary shades of color. Picture a cranberry slowly turning blue, or a coal fired power plant at sunset.
Another example, also unlikely, would be playing keyboard. The first note is free, any note you like. Then play the next a fifth away. Now some obligation for the tonic is felt. Next, unavoidably, comes the question of whether to remain in key or break free. Whether to bear the slings and staccato of outrageous improvisation. Arising shades of lost symphonies bring half-tones, blended chords, harmonies in several keys. A listener is left to decide, guess, or feign deafness.
Well, let's kick that up a notch, try playing washtub bass. To transpose the effort into words: thump-a-dump-dub. Sounding very bass-ic. Yet details fall by the wayside – a buzzing hang strap, the rumble of the floor, grunts of satisfaction as that down home note is plumbed.
It's not higher, by any stretch, than the mountains. NOT AMAZING. Not quiet or loud. But it might sit well with someone who likes to read . . .
is it ordinary?
All the other topics are taken. And here is all that remains. For a test:
Imagine everything going on in fast forward. It's all a blur, not permitting any rest. You have a DVR? Watching the ads skitter by will serve to show the mind slipping out of gear, as the humor settles in. And the topic . . .?
I just like to write, skipping over the top. So you're along for the ride. Over the top is just life in another key, an escape from the Ferris wheel. Which is too slow for any real consideration. Its cousin, the roller coaster, is too fast. In between is not, as you may have guessed, the happy mean. Somehow, in between is nowhere..
Nowhere is only what is missed. Just in that fraction of a moment before it's caught, before it slips away. Isn't there some humor in this? Seriously, the phenomenon is distressing.
Now we're moving.
Mountain top pill bugs, water wheels, Sancho pill bug tilting at the roller coaster's shadow, dodging the slow clank of the pulley cable on the way up, anticipating the drop from the top, inspecting fingernails all the way down.. And in the midst of a calm wind comes the skirling cloud, silver grey and scolding, traverses the broadening plain, and stops short.
“Where was I going?”
And the patient barber, stroking his chin, answers,
“You were heading for the hills.”
The interview is proving not very explanatory. A bird on the fence, not chirping, simply stares. Thought patterns stir in the nearby leaves. The barber loses patience,
“Can't you keep your thoughts to yourself!”
The leaves part.
“I am what I am.”
Skirling is going to happen regardless, thought the cloud. Let this bird fly, in formation if it wants, and amplify its presence . . .
“Chirp!”
Oh, there it goes. The barber props one elbow on a knee.
“What do you mean, it couldn't have been about what you were reading.”
Bird withholds a twitter. Instead, folding his wings, appears to fall asleep. How insubordinate!
The roil of answers swamped the hair cutter, making his stubble stand up at attention. From amongst the grey forest an appearance of damp wavy heat wafted up. It seemed some thought had been liberated, but no way of proving it.
“I was going to sleep. Of course that's a thing you don't need to read bout.”
The cloud thought again, going deep down within. There was nowhere to prop an elbow, so . . .
“The weather is going to do what it does, with or without my approval.”
