YESTERMORROW

This is like stepping off a cliff to write what on the way down? There is too much to say, not enough words, none of them really work anyway. And you might prefer a good story, or instructions about how to plant garlic, or how to get your ething to stop doing what it wants. But if you're tired of all that and maybe want something about how you work, don't wait for the splat!

Now there's a good race track. Goes a lot further than any video game, better hot dogs than they sell off the booth at the end of the universe. Way further. One catch. There's no story! Your device might anyway come up with something completely different as to how . . .

Time for a cup of coffee . . .whatever it is that wants this written will have to wait . . .

(!)

Ah, good cup of coffee. Freshly ground beans are best, is that what it wanted? Anything right to hand will do. Whatever's worth waiting for is most potent when fresh.

But that's hard when nothing happens. Isn't that how we all

work?

         *** *** ***

Lunch at Groton's. Then the firefighters leave for a drink from Thunder Creek. And then pan handling, I see, for nuggets from the New York Times.

         *** *** ***

nuggets of wisdom?

disappearance of ancestral forestry? I am ashamed

of my heritage, Celtic Druidry

clattering Linotype spewing iron rails

technicians wielding

technology, new age automatic torture, untouched

by human hands, replete

with the madness of crowds

ashamed

but writing it as is

         *** *** ***

tracking that dream across the web, I find that Groton's Main Street Cafe has left a final message:

“Time to Say Goodbye”

“It's bittersweet to announce as we near the end of our 7^th year in business, we are saying goodbye. Tuesday, October 27 we will be locking our doors for the last time. To all our loyal customers: we always viewed you more like a guest and a friend and appreciated every one of you. Thank you for all your support.”

The internet!

Hidden deep within our galaxy's black hole is a red raspberry – the square root of negative one. As I watch it disappear over the event horizon, at the last moment, it becomes a Census-Designated Place, population 4,205, not legally recognized in Connecticut, located between Groton and Stonington. I learn of Pequot Indians decimated by white man's illnesses, shipbuilding, electric boats. It's the location for Spielberg's film, Amistad, the saga of a successful slave revolt; it's called Mystic, and it's the home of Mystic Pizza.

I had been reading about Edgar Cayce. It seems an off-handed way for a dream to communicate, to pick a place unknown to me that ends up, after some investigation, to be real. With a bit of humor thrown in.

The next night came another dream, a telegram:

UNABLE TO WIRE MONEY

STRINGING BEADS INSTEAD

         *** *** ***

There are times when I hate to write. For every word that appears, there is an unspoken universe. To speak is an interruption. Yet whether as a curse or a blessing, I am urged. “We are lived,” said Charles Fort.

But this is not one of those times. This morning, late November and the sun lately summery, I think of broth slowly rising, how to boil a frog. I am a happy frog. The broth is delicious. If most of us felt this way, civilization would be vastly improved. A banquet. I am a server at the Last Supper. The whole universe of clown words is doing cartwheels on floppy slippers.

So maybe we didn't catch on in time. So? This universe is, to speak softly, alive with possibilities. Maybe there'll be no one to sagely observe our demise with equanimity. But then . . .

Now several doves have come to visit. One small feeder with more than plenty seeds, but now they fall to arguing, lots of flapping until just one remains victorious. And at last I am reduced to laughter. How ludicrous my admonishments have been. Not that they cannot hear but just that they don't listen. I am the foolish one.

Slowly now in the savory stew, leaves flutter down. Flavoring. Truly the Mystic moment, floating down the Nile, cuneiform tablets liberated in a burst of AK47 rapid fire, whose insanitary shall rise to the top of the feeder?

Oh, but this was to have been just my backyard, though real as it is is just a metaphor. Words spiral out of control. They will not stay put, any more than a proper focus of attention, which is reputed to be the solar plexus, whereas I find it anywhere. Any point on the concrete of this patio devolves into a gathering of sand, held in place not for posterity but for the time being. An entire train of concepts seemingly solid that begin to dissolve upon closer inspection. Each grain of sand another universe. And the sky above is not the limit. My plexus is the Big Bang, enter or exit through a quantum anomaly.

Well of course we haven't gotten anywhere with all of this, have we? Must be useless.

Agreed. And in good company. Lady Hummingbird enjoys this weather and her own sugar water feeder. Again and again, and stops to hover by my chair. Squirrels playing in the silver maple. A pair of doves on the fence sit side by side. There really is a Mystic River. It might be pizza.