HERESAY FOURTEEN
Amongst plants scattered around here are some that do not unfold in the usual order of time. Our neighbor's rose blooming in December, calendulas getting ready for October Fest, dandelion wine for Christmas. And weeds, of course, have a mind of their own.
Am I alone in admiration for those that sprout out of cracks in the sidewalk? City towers with slippery glass reflect fleeting clouds, words falling into empty spaces called streets, knowing they will not bounce, never to be recovered. The falcon's rush ignores them.
It will be mulled wine perhaps, for Christmas, following a shirt-tail-like-kite shipping out for elsewhere. The seed package is brightly colored, calendulas not forgotten but re-imagined, all the mind aglow with the full product. Dandelions of December pouting under dull clouds, And what? you might ask . . .
The falcon circles back, coming to perch, momentarily, on a red stop light.
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It's a kite tail ballast that won't impede progress, can be dropped off the way an endangered lizard lets fall its tail. Some figures of speech are called upon to face what seems just like any other day, incorporating all the usual changes. Quietude, however, can be a jet heading for Moffett Field, a blustering TV, a rain puddle, conversations repeating what they overheard.
In ancient days of vacuum tubes, my Hallicrafters Shortwave Radio with its long wire antenna caught signals difficult to understand. Beyond the green glow of its tuning dials lay speculation. How far is far? An infinite end to the long wire outpaced imagination, extending into darkness. It had to do with what?
That time co-extends with now, with no interval in between, an experiential instant. Two book ends are clapped together, Bap! But inaudible. Nothing has been upset. All that happens is neither loud nor soft, unperturbed. Whatever is has no stake in conforming to my impressions.
So right off the top, at the down beat, sing with Louie: What a Wonderful World! And of course here's that lizard tail.
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But isn't it possible, Herr Watson, that some other energy than electromagnetic pervades even today's scientific observations, slipping through the sieve?
Somewhere between Star Trek, a trolly car, and Billy Jones Wildcat Railroad in Los Gatos was a premonition. To give it a name that won't make Time magazine, call it Azalea Bob. Abe for short.
Abe felt that his time in the White House would only make sense when politics were forgotten. Only in the ashes of a dead fire side chat would the ghost of Marley outdo Al Jolson, singing Mammy in black-face. There would be no assassination, because the opera house had been teleported on a time-warp trolley to end up at Billy Jones' place.
Billy yanked the chain on his steam whistle – Wheee Ahhh! --and folks knew he wasn't just whistling Dixie. John Wilkes wasn't into selling Fords just then, perhaps the whole idea was a little off from the start.
It takes years to winnow out what everyone might have missed. Outlines of an autobiography are hard to discern in the dust of daily commerce. Too, depending on who's reading, it blends into fiction. Aren't lies more interesting, nay profitable, than slate grey reality?
John Wilkes said to Picard, “I got bored.” He was dematerialized on the spot, downloaded to a steep hill in San Francisco, at the exact same spot where he first heard the bell of that trolley car, where he is now yanking the bell cord.
Hey Abe! And there the curtain closes. So complete!
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