HERESAY SEVENTEEN

It is the least likely superstition to have arrived on a whim. Most of them arrive with a bird call, or by stumbling accidentally. Later they are transformed to new year's resolutions or promises to neighbors, relatives at some distance. But at least these orphans of the reasoned life will have a proper cadence. They will not, I say, mimic the cacophony of advertisements trying to out yell each other. Perhaps a throbbing thumb, suffered by a slip of attention while nailing a loose fence board, comes closer to the meaning.

The bird that drifted into our yard come on blackbird wings, bringing a bird's eye view of the region. Without so much as a nod or a wink, the state of the neighborhood was delivered: CAW!

Like mechanical mice, winding themselves up, go the people driving freeways, not remembering previous lives herding cattle. Vaguely humming, “where the deer and the antelope play,” though not remembering the words exactly. They become stretched like wretched rubber bands. A few lucky ones, who prefer sushi over cell phone conversations, have prepared a bento box to last through the traffic jams. These Donner Pass survivors, reincarnated, are greeting each other on a bonus trip, trekking past the main crowd over highway 17, following an inherited instinct to the Mystery Spot.

I am among them, wondering why they want to be mystified. The Mystery is a tilt-up. Who cares about whether it is a gravitational anomaly or creative carpentry that made the place? It has always seemed perfectly normal to me, a Spot where it's possible to feel at home without making excuses. Jabbering tourists dangle cameras and poke around, trading theories as I watch calmly. The distraction of the main attraction is a balm, out there in Christmas tree farm country, with Santa's Village and apple cider stands and, yes, The Tree Farm. The trip is an expedition to a mad house, clowns laughing over car radios, and all I have to do is act normal -- “yes, water can flow uphill.” Of course I would be reminded it's all in fun, and of course I would always laugh.

My god! who put this pen in my hand? Certainly like everyone else I have a name, a body, and learn from others. Putting it this way, anyone reading this, including “me,” might suspect a trick question here. But suppose none of us is the questioner?

Perhaps thought, by its boot straps, creates itself. One just initiates whatever is needed. Why ask about a questioner? But that begs the question. An endless loop. A bad pun.

However, to tell the truth, “I” did not think this up. For one thing, it's clear this assemblage is void. Here today, gone tomorrow, in the blink of an eye or an eon. Yet here is this form. What flows through this pen has to include everyone. We all define each other, I've heard, through our relations. But by who? If I'm the driver of this bus, did the bus company pick a destination out of thin air? The logic would seem out of joint because its integuments are stretched over our usual five senses. Logic: the process of exclusion built on a priori assumptions. For one bus there is one driver. Passengers who don't want to end up in the mad house or the hospital instinctively insist on this. Abandonment of step by step interlocking statements returns us to the questioner who declines a name or a particular body, flicking ashes out the window, leaving the Mystery Spot

“What did he say?”

But he's gone.