MUSIC LOOM

I realized the story had gotten away. Things were not ever going to be the same. Now they're quite different than when they began. The original was misunderstood anyway, and so not only have times changed but what they were ~ wasn't.

Let's forget the details of my case. There was a history~ triumphs, sorrows, clever wins, mistakes, strategies that worked and didn't, the story that got away. It was all an archive of “me.”

Or “you” in your case.

We've heard that those who can't remember history are doomed to repeat it. But whether or not we remember, it's not forgotten. Let alone present or future possibilities, which in any case need not dictate, as though karmically chiseled in stone. I'll go a step further. The whole kit and caboodle can be sent back.

Suppose you like to knit. How to knit need not be forgotten. In my case it's playing keyboard. But what to play or knit is freed up. Improvisation gets easier, freer, more fun.

It would be either an adventure or a cop out, thumbing a ride by the edge of a dusty road. Something will come along. And next thing you know, here's this little bird comes to roost on your cap. Ruins the picture.

So that's the muse tune. Hope you like it.

It's a willow by the creek, as far as I'm concerned. Something graceful in that weeping shape, kindly bent, and the little green fingers riding a breeze. It rolls along heedless of afterburners kicking in at Moffett Field, and trembled water eddies that ripple as they will.

Not being teacher's pet ~ she thwacks the desk with her infamous ruler ~ confers statistical significance. The meaning accumulates, beading up on a newly waxed surface in a gathering of spherical eyes. The jets outdo themselves, breaking through a barrier to nowhere.

Think I'll borrow Steinbeck's turtle. It's in grave danger here, flipped over on its back, slow fat legs working away. An ode to ethanol. They're gone now.

The jets. Money spent in pursuit of itself knows no limit. To entrust such with anything of social or personal value is turtles all the way down. It knows no master, cares only for itself.

A small crowd has gathered by the willow. A Coke bottle was accidentally overturned. I hear a chant: Breeze, Breeze, Breeze! You might expect this in hot weather on a cruise ship. But the crowd is a flock of green parrots.

There's no way what to expect when you stick your thumb out. It's getting to be like yesterday's weather forecast. Even sentence structure is ruptured. The authors of most legislation, of course, are parrots. The ship has a secret destination. Which we will learn about bye and bye. (It would have been easy to substitute “sacred” for “secret.” But the muse brings an index finger to pursed lips.)

Is the world going to hell in a honey bucket? No doubt, no doubt. And not a laughing matter. The weather is truly weird. Compare the uncounted millions who, for one reason or another, choose to ignore it.

However here is a mild breeze, mostly cloudy. Perfect for the aroma of compost sidling past my chair. At the moment there isn't much to say. At least nothing that would upset anyone. Very much. This will not be a Facebook afterburner.

Oh yes, I have on occasion said something about nothing. But let's not spoil the mood. Our neighbor's cat has come to sit on the fence. It's a shy, black cat. But Frankie is upset, taking an aggressive, crouching stance, which Twinkie notices, and decides to lurk on him. Intramural cat play. I make eye contact, it squinches its eyes, retreats back along the fence, and . . .

Other times I have solved world problems. But it's like lecturing hypnotized prisoners how they ended up in jail.

Wherever one or two humans gather, Twinkie comes to sit under the table. Mr. Finch arrives to occupy his spot on the fence, just vacated by our neighbor's cat. The tomato plant Susan potted yesterday is perking up.

~

Unlike a know-nothing afternoon, this know-less evening has its own tune. It was prepared by a glint of color somewhere beyond my mind's eye. One that even I have never seen. There is nothing on my synthesizer, no matter which notes I play, that can compare. It's playing right now, just out of mind-shot.

Everyone has heard a cricket in a thicket. Or somewhere, if only in a recording. Some people have been known to carefully construct a cricket cage. (Good fortune.) Played in a decidedly different key, it begs the question: What's the color of laughter? Following that, perhaps a breeze.