NOODLES
. . . sitting outside
I hear laughter from nextdoor . . .
. . . they share a timeless realm
the very young and the very old . . .
After what seemed an eternity of fumbling, the labyrinth suddenly disappeared. Sort of a disappointment. Jimmy from down the street rode up, honking the horn on his handlebar.
“Let's ride back up to the quarry.”
“OK . . .”
And then he was gone.
When I got there the gate was open, and nothing . . . No machinery. The last resting place of a nightmare, just an open green field. An oak tree. I could imagine Jimmy out there -- somewhere:
“See? Told ya so!” he'd say, having this way of mocking everything. But also, he was gone. Would we ever ride again? The feeling had no edges.
At dreamtime, the eyes of sleep are vacant fields that blossom with flowers never seen. The labyrinth sings a cricket song with no cricket, memories are there before the events. Before waking to impossibilities, everything is possible. And then the back door opens, shoving them back in where an oak tree reigns supreme.
Here, one might suppose, would be the end of the story. But Jimmy had returned to our tree house, there before the labyrinth. The quarry had always seemed a magical place, even before disappearing. Quite as we'd expected.
“See?”
Sunday is a totem with a many feathered head dress. The mystery attracts visitors, usually arriving in the late afternoon. Here comes baby Junco, almost an adult now, and my silent dove companion. No sirens or radios blaring. Neighbors are quiet. The impossible happens without being remarked, except for the slight breeze blowing, neither too hot nor too cold.
Everyone knows a ball point pen slows the speed of history. Words are raucous clowns. They bring out a mystery sarcophagus stained with pressed flowers. So many, in fact, that the clowns laugh and shuffle them, like prestidigitators, into stacks. Rows of coffins, each row with a label on a stick. And one of them, not surprisingly, is this description – what to call it?
Frankie doesn't care. The sun on my foot rest, where he likes to sleep, had been too hot. He'd moved into the shade beneath the planter box. But now that shadows are stretching, he's back. No need to bother him with a discussion of time and space.
Well, nothing to do. The totem looks enviously at the clowns, as if to ask, what do we call this? But I'm with Frankie, and not much to say.
Piled up against the fence is the ruination of the world. Who would care to sift it? The weeds casting shadows show the angle of the sun, falling everywhere the same, however inconstant my observations, or even whether I'm watching. How do I know?
Watch until it's forgotten. The rubble becomes a lotus blossom, piled up against the fence. The world is discarded joy, coalesced jingles of freeze dried tears, a trolly car full of people reading newspapers, transported from one demolition to another. Who would care to look? Here is a kid comes along, kicks a can down the street, a puff of rust. It was a country road once, vague molecular ancestors in ruts. The sun at just that exact angle warming the wings of a butterfly. And not a shy one, coming to rest on a patient nose as well.
The syncopated marching band had been a caterpillar once, moving in waves. Then it was not so simple as just the left leg not knowing what the right one was doing. In fact, if they'd stopped to think about it, they would all have suffered sun burn.
It was obvious. And there were no seminars about the need for sun screen. Our Major Domo, Trevor Bell, would heist his chrome baton, and the drums rattling off a fanfare would launch the miracle.
To the casual eye there was a parade ground block formation, advancing as one. That was the intent. Flashing tubas do their completely incommensurate belch, the stomach of our organism. Flutes dancing tinker bell over a forest of brilliant trumpets, dark green trombones lowering the floor. A philosopher on the curb is moved to smiles, gesticulations and dancing feet. It was our street beat, fleet street, caterpillar on the sly. Everyone knew it.
