| 7/20/2003 02:08:00 AM |
[ entropical breeze ]
it seems like anytime i try to find some deeper answer to what life's all about, things end in resignation. i read something which talked about how fictitious writers are always fighting the tides, while the nonfictitious writers are always playing volleyball. but maybe that's only true of writing, because everyone's gotta be swimming at some point. the problem is just seeing that sometimes you can float or possibly even stand. sometimes you look up and you're in a pool. no diving. no running. all adults must be accompanied by a child under 20. i talk to all of these people. and nobody knows. not what they're looking for. not what i'm looking for. all they know is that it's no good. it might not even be the finding that's needed. maybe it's only finding the reason for looking. 'ah yes, my keys! that's what i was looking for. so i can drive. to the store. to pick up some dumplings. and orange sherbert. and another loaf of bread for good measure. yup, that's what she said we need. and i otta pick up some soy milk too. for that experimental lassi.' then i can hop in my cerulean subaru and drift down to the hollowed out wall with a fruit mosaic balanced precariously underneath a fade-striped awning, yawning. and toss a wave and a smile to the wrinkles behind the counter as i reach for a homewellwornmadehand basket. wrinkles. he knows my name, and i know his. we are related. it might as well be the same name. whip van wrinkle, rip van winkle. he notices the soy milk and asks about my lassi. she's stronger than ever, i says. he nods and knows and rings up the world. i hand him my work. and grin because anywhere else would have mandated change. not here though. here all formalities have been pitched away. for the sunglassed matron saint with too-thick lip-stick there will be change. for the well-brushed adonis combing through shampoos there will be change. for the fine-tuned madonna, saviors in tow, in whisps of tow, there will be change. but not here. not in front of the milk, not in front of the dumplings, not in front of the icey cream of the crop, not in front of the rising and risen. twenty years. twenty years and change. or change-less. twenty years minus the change-less. one-hundred quarters and not a dime of time. it's all nothing but a dream.
heheh, i feel surprisingly better now! and garp-like? yes, i enjoy hyphenating--- i want so much to help. and hyphens are like tiny threads of my self tied to motes and emoted away to you, world at large. like stairways to slumber:
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Moosi
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