Sunday, July 02, 2006
All was well. I looked down at the buildings, a rectangular array of rectangles with rusty red roofs, recognized them as the World War II surplus barracks used for married student housing from the 1940’s at least until the 1970’s, and I descended for a closer look.
Mistake. . . Space-time ripple. . . I stood in the courtyard-arena-stage-parade ground-desert, surrounded by four walls of windows—no doors, no ceiling—three stories high. The ladder reached just shy of the fifth floor. From half way up the ladder I flew out, noticed a busy warehouse workman turn, look at me and run into a dark room. I followed the covered breezeway-driveway at the third floor level outward and began an unwanted descent as I struggled to get the coat on while trying to rise. A horizontal ledge blocked my passage up the free-rise zone. Rigid, hard ledge; can’t go through. Grab ledge edge and wedge myself up to the all-rise zone and away we go.
Waking, I opened my eyes to . . .
He-She-It will not leave until a wind storm roars in, but the sky is clear and the leaves don’t wave-waiver in their paths.
The pine branch, the one who mirrors
So the question is resolved: playing Post Office is more fun than Monopoly, but Monopoly and monopoly and Congress and congress seem to kiss a lot these days. Some say they always have.
And always is almost-nearly-close to-approaching infinite time, which heals all wounds. When you are injured, the bandage should be wound awound and awound the wound, or Elmer Fudd will shoot the mizwable wabbit wonce, maybe twice. That’s not nice and he’ll be on ice. He’ll have an icy reception but no cigar. Cigars take us back to
touches my face...
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