Isn’t so ironic that from this point on the Irish coast one degree up or down in temperature might heavily influence things ten fold on the other side of the globe?
I so often have an odd impression that my writing becomes a collective effort. Not necessarily through some phantom paw pushing my hand about the keyboard or across the page, but from some drawn upon obscure figment of imagination, or supposedly from my imagination? Some unspecified characters saying something barely intelligible, producing something possible understandable, maybe even comprehendible? But only in a sense that they offer a theory of being part of a continuum. One which causes all to reflect upon the concept of human memory in a sense contrasting that of the world of insects. Do the se creatures also have a sense of the past as well as their present? Because structurally, every creature known to mankind and every waking entity that is perceivable, does in the fact present physical structure evidence of having been part of a memory! A collective number of the species succeeding by virtue of the evident most current perfect exponent. One that is the result of all the past conjuring’s come ultimately of an implicit well-determined organization. Something that had, for some strange reason, varied from a previous less favorable past tense version. This evolution of the species’ form over time being a result of memories that are no longer in evidence. Yet this current final form by itself attests to the fact that these previous unknown ones were once evident. So whatever I tend to write and ultimtely edit may by the same token not be the latest ultimate iteration of what has at some previous moment come to pass?
Does that make me an implicit puppet that needs to be duly and daily prodded by some giant invisible finger in order to produce some more entertaining forms of diversion for the edification of a phantom unknowable static universe as a whole? How pathetic to think so?
I walked in to the door of the modern ranch house in an unfamiliar suburb to find that my mother was now simply a poor relation living alone in a side room. My long lost surrogate daughter was living in the same house. Albeit, in the guise of a much more socially aggressive female seeking to maintain her status as the primary belle of the ball. My poor mother now appearing fifty years younger and simply dressed in her finest. Yet barely tolerated and not daring not to make a false move out of her tiny space lest she crack the thin ice of her precarious living situation by too soon becoming spoiled fish. My dear daughter now being completely independent and rude, no longer willing to talk to me. Which, by the way, was just fine with me!
It was only some time later when I had gotten hold of a language translator that I could crunch the Russian script that had been meticulously written out on a wall sequestered within an antechamber at the local downtown food court. A anti-Baptist place where a golden painting of a winged angel was hung above a terrazzo ridden space. I well recall that within this chamber, I had to stand before it naked, and vulnerable, and totally powerless. Trying to rub off my own skin as if I was like a snake being able to somehow shed it along with many of my past and previous shortcomings. I then spied a small group of exceptionally beautiful and immensely attractive young girls. Ones possessing the type of beauty that I had missed out upon in those former eras of youthful folly due to my own persistent idiocy. Youth in the eye of one’s old age being doubly attractive.
As I left that house where my mother sat alone waiting not daring to move, I found that as I turned around it had been instantly replaced by another unfamiliar one. I could not find my car on that street? And looking up I noticed that the clouds had come down low and had taken on the frozen texture of a rough black obsidian stone. Taking out my camera and raising it skyward it malfunctioned. The atmosphere having been dramatically reduced to the point that the last amount of breathable oxygen remaining on the planet had fallen from miles above, and was now only a matter of a hundred feet above my head, and still threatening to sink lower! A terror rising in my mind as to what it might feel like when that level fell further down and I would no longer be able to breathe? It was horrible to contemplate. And yet it was there, the last of the air the last of the oxygen! Imagining the terror of that absolute last breath!
Awakening from that muse to find that Michele and I were now in a lesser traveled part of the city in a massive abandoned industrial area. We had driven there in her old sixties model car and parked it’s rust frame within one of the cyclone fence enclosed sections of other wrecks far from a long massive now mostly disused warehouse. One reminiscent of that more prosperous former war era, but now not used for anything more than storing odds and ends of old machinery and small farmer’s vegetables. She had converted a small office up on the second floor into a livable space. And downstairs had full range of foodstuffs at her disposal. All over the long line of open corrugated boxes, each full of potatoes as well as other types of alimentation. Ones that could have for nearly song! I being tasked by her to push a wheeled metal cart with a table attached, upon which her chosen groceries were being transferred. And so much like her, when it became time to pay, she had run off to re-park her car so that I was alone and left with that task. My portion of goods taken from the total costing a good $35.00.