The street, the leaves, the river, hesitation

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I don’t have much time left. It starts here, it starts with this, it starts again and again, simultaneously here and anywhere else.

It is beautiful now. I get home, off the highway, power steering pump whining, oil burning, with L– at 4:30 am and the house smells like a forgotten but familiar motel, roadside, somewhere you’re only ever passing through. We can sleep here. We’ll be safe here, tonight. Get situated. Climb the stairs. Slide sideways into a neighboring dream, a dream of the old city in amber light, a black couch with chrome legs, a cigarette machine, someone smiling expectantly in the waiting room. An elevator, an escape route. The night awaits, weightlessly. All too soon, morning; rumpled, assemble a coffee, start figuring shit out.

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The profound satisfaction of bringing your child home safely, at any age, for any reason. Picture the loved cat, lost, or forlorn favorite stuffed animal, limp-necked on the side of the highway, left behind — now picture it not so — the opposite of a nightmare — the cat let in through the screen door, the teddy bear clutched and hugged — that, times infinity.

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An old bee confused by the laughter of autumn drew the same cartoon dog on about 9 or 10 train cars to form a backwards comic strip — so if the train was hurtling by you, you would see the panels in order. On the last one, right before the end of the train in its current configuration, the dog, speaking indirectly for the bee, was saying “I’d rather die as a raindrop than in one.”

Meaningless, of course, but what graffiti isn’t.

On this world tilted on its axis, nothing stays important for long.

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It is beautiful now, up here, upstairs, in my unsacred temple. The water table rises inexorably; this’ll be the last room in the house to become uninhabitable. Light caresses the remains of my dreams. Windows open between rains. Neighbor (not yet blackout drunk today) says ’mon bub to her dog. A– has made the kitchen smell like bacon; weightlessly, memories climb the stairs.

Front door bell rings. Package has arrived. Whatever the contents, enjoy it while you can.

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“You should write a book.”

But this is my book, and you’re in it, and i’m in yours. Merriment and hilarity and confusion ensue. You know how it works. You’ve done it before. You’re doing it right now, and so am i. Mutual dreaming. Individual awakening. We find each other again.

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“Pay attention to your breathing” isn’t new — but until now there’s never been so much to look at.

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Again we encounter the river of golden locust leaves, streetside, and it awakens an autumnal sigh from deep within the well of grief and joy. But is this the river we seek?

The street, the leaves, the river, hesitation. Concentration. Hopscotch, jumprope, rhyming games. The feeling of motion, deep, internal, slow, steady — all the elements are coming together. We know it’s time to go, but — we just got here —

“So take the house with you.”

And it’s true. We noticed it a few days ago. It is starting to float. At first a bug’s height off the ground, the foundation chafing against the dirt like a heavy ship bumping languidly against a dock, when the sea is humid and restless. Each night, a little higher, a little more free. Soon, it seems, it will be unmoored altogether.

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I have been neglecting the fake pigeons (for reasons) and today the real pigeons appeared (on Water Street) to remind me that I need them, whether real or fake or neither or both. Someone rode his bike right through their klatsch and they swooped towards me, missing my face by inches, moving me thru them effortlessly as molecules of air, then burst across the street and alighted on nearby buildings, combining, recombining, drawing crazy elegance in the air, and that’s exactly what my memories do, how our thoughts work.

I miss them so bad, as always when in self-imposed exile. I need them — why? What good is this need, for anyone or anything else? What is the value of hunger? “Hunger keeps the individual alive” answers the overconfident smug easy-mode voice in the chat. OK, but — 

Continued my ride — focusing on the alleys and canals — the hidden pockets in between the named parts of the city — as everything out in the open or on the trails seemed unreal or fake. Was it?? Is it?? Who are you? Can you tell me? When will we know for sure?

Does it matter?

(Yes. Maybe. Who are you? No. I don't know.

Maybe.)