n s p a c e       info | files | web | 2021-01 (last update)

Untitled21




SECTION 0


You have made it all up and it’s a story you could go on telling, except she doesn’t want to listen.  She?  Or he?  From the start when everybody was talking at once I never thought I would start reading.  And reading into things?  No way.  The antithetical didn’t make any sense, especially when it seems to draw open, or was it drawing close, the conditions that old theory regarding organisms and animals told of.  That was such awhile and awhile ago, by such and such and such a person.  Nope.  The very theory of things, being by nature so very very, was thankfully only one of many of its kinds.  Then again, I never expected to start writing either; except at the Fun Fair they passed out the spiral notebooks.  It looked harmless enough, one of the smaller ones; in fact, it was quite attractive, with a bright and shiny cover, with smooth, lined sheets in between, lined, of course, in a subtler shade of blue, and quite inviting.

Not long ago they put out a movie.  They put out movies all the time here, actually, and always on time, right down to a match, standard deviation accounted for, to the nuance, a funny word, to the emotional edge in a majority of an audience.  In the beginning of the movie someone wakes up in the middle of an infrastructure and meets someone else who woke up in the infrastructure and together they meet more people waking up in the infrastructure and all together they look for a way out of the infrastructure.  She didn’t get it, so I thought, this by the way she looked away and said that was a scary movie.  Quite the contrary to what was expected, by the blue envelop containing all those notes of…  On the way out of the theatre, there was a mirror, with fake gold trims, almost like plastic, as if airbrushed with metallic paint, the kind in cylindrical pressurized containers sold in hardware stores, beside the poster frame.  As we approached it, I wondered if we were both wondering, if we would catch each other’s eyes there, and who would avert whose gaze first.  Who was it that wrote that story about was on the table; but fortunately, nobody wanted to speak first.  And anyway, as it were, an old couple walked right up in front of us as we were making a turn to the right onto the escalator to look at the poster on the left.  Besides, stream-of-consciousness fiction is out of fashion, as any young person can contest, the show on TV now is advocating for materials more sophisticated for the future more appropriate than from that moment in time.
 




SECTION 1


1. The bridge

The bridge was no more than ten meters in length.  Wide by two meters, a pedestrian bridge.  The proportions would be strange to some for such an arch; but there were no indicators as to its origins and history, no signs indicating what conditions compelled its creation.  No marks that wrote by whom it was built, by what force, nor the very when it has wrought into existence… 

If the metallic alloy that stretched thinly over the sides were any indication…

Barely was this the thought appearing upon the perception of the two persons standing at the rails, if rails be the right description for that gesture in steel, painted politely in a light hue, the color of dawns that turn out to be days of light cloud cover.  Early skies, and the breezes that add up to brief atmospheres forming over the jelly of bustle from mornings to noons, were more likely the type of thought that arose on the old couple’s minds.  The poster they had gazed at, to be duly noted, was to the contrary of a bird like ship like formation of a thing; the background though was an atmospheric blend, almost like the skies on the walls, delicately cracked and yellowed, but more than likely, was dealt to a fine blend, artisteticly of course, in the filters of photoshop.  

Airbrushing is the photoshop operation everybody talks about.  Fetishized!  The critic exclaimed – in outrage, or better and worse yet, in contemptuous coolness, against the finer tastes of the younger crowd.  Of this younger generation, with minds apparently not formed to such as critics yet, entered these two persons currently on the bridge, a bit high over waters.  

“I was about to ask you - " one was saying to the other.

“All the way, on train and bus, from one side of the valley,” the other drew out a radius to an arc with a swing of the arm, “to the other side of the… rainbow.”

“Maybe they didn’t tell you shit.”

“Can they tell me any more?”

“When I was out doing the thing for that dude, I told you about that… with the Caravan, and the boxes they got wet?  Mr Winters, that’s the dude’s boss, he flew all the way over from Sicily, or Italy, or somewhere from over Europe there... He flew all the way over to make one conference.  Didn’t even have a show let alone a talk or nothing like that.  Anyway, took us all out one night.  Some fancy pub called… Hurricaine, Hurricaine Something…”

“Hurricaine Delta, down by 3rd St..”

“Is a fancy pub anyway, with nice trimmings on the bar, with half price oysters… and nice plates.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, turns out the Caravan was a bit of a tuneup.  The pilot was a player of a sith instrument.  Even the strings are like made of glass, all twenty of them real fine and I mean brutal fine …”

”Fiber glass?”

“Fiber glass?  Some suped up nylon I thought.  Yeah maybe.  Does fiber glass conduct?”

“It’s a silica, so…”

“Yeah, these strings they conduct so…”

“Carbon conducts…”

“Maybe it’s carbon…”

”They make filaments…”

“I mean they look fine and light… Could have been the light too… You know how that pub is, the chandeliers - ”

“Depends on how they make it.  There are several methods… When I said filaments, I really meant strings, or more like a bundle of them, ‘cause it’s the bundling, you have to bundle them… they can be pretty strong permanent enough to be strings for an instrument, but it’s much the way they… its the procedure…”

“It’s the refining…”

“Are we talking about electricity?”

“Um…”

“Carbon filaments conducts electricity.”

“Both resonance and energy… supposedly.”

“You mean, alleg-ed-ly?”

Both laughed. 

“So what happened” was about to roll off the tongue of the person who asked, but having asked already, instead paused.  In the pause in which nothing was spoken the decision was made that one would gasp and turn the gasp into a deep breath, and the other would look at the watch and by looking announce the now and the then.





2. Bounce

You show her how things are outside, and still she makes them as if they are so personal.  Didn’t she?  Did she?  He probably seemed sweet, like the cuter variety of birds with chirpier personalities.  Bright eyes, with the softer touch.  So curbed, unless the softness was a piano lead-in.  When the fisherman came to mind, you better call the hunter in the sky.  

When I first lost my notebooks, I got over it by getting a star map.  Not Star Map showing hollywood stars, though that might have been informative, and lessening somehow, but star map as in obscure constellations on a circle placed on top of another circle so you can rotate it to the month and day thus aligning geographical location, a place on the terrestrial map, within a solar-universal context, a set of relative places within universal maps, theoretically.  A few dollars - would you trade a blank t-shirt from AJ Moore’s in for outer space?  

As it happens, a private space station is being constructed somewhere in the vicinity of – well, the deserts.  Highroller architect, highroller client.  If there is a casino that sells odds on the gender of these two highrollers, and the odds were sliding the woman off the scale, how many female persons would go out and burn the casino down?  Somewhat less recently, morning and late night talk shows put the spotlight onto two authors who published a title identifying two planets from which men and women had come.  Whether so or so or so, and the parody skit was funny, is anybody calling NASA personnel to lobby for respective colonization?  To update and bring some fresh thought onto the space travel plans that collapsed when the monkeys called it quits?  Three planets, three life styles: tab another for free love, another for pro-choice, travelling, bringing issues forward.  Monkeys say, monkeys do: strong ones - the ones who live to live, always get on and onto the monkey-ships.  





3. The cage

For a bit over a month that had then amounted to some years or decades, or some even say, eons, for what kind had remembered more reaching, an ant hill took form that, to some, yes those same some who say eons, or the few thousand moments that made up a thousand islands in a bubble, became a mountain castle, a fortress of militaristic bounds for the protection of weaker minds, allegedly, in essense availing sanctuary for smaller tadpoles who dream of becoming frogs.  

“You should not have asked.”

Innocuous was what was forwarded, from one anonymous sender to another.  Who even drew up the yardstick in the first place seemed of such minscule importance that the matter barely made gossip over coffee and water cooler water.  Nobody was sitting in a conspiratory shadow, see, there was no consortium.  The only official “consortium” were dreamers happy to live and build to extend the sphere of the aquarium that manifested as if overnight into a limited yet temptingly analogous reflection.  The “other” consortium consisted of a random pile of accidents that, like analogies, ought to be a matter strictly implicit and honored only in the realm of the creative classifieds.  Yet, in this land of fossils in museums and of Fossils as watches, questions in classes have become as unfashionable as factories incapable of happy meals.  Happier still, though the larger positive implications less recognized, is when coins and bills flow like syrup from cookie jars, and also, more so, when a discovery was made of a mint green bill, owner unknown, which at some point was left in the cookie jar.  

“It was all crumpled up, one moment later and some fool would be eating a hundred dollar bill with his cookie.”

“Explaining that to headquarters would have been easier.”

“Instead here we are,” Chef nodded.  “How many cookies does it take to screw a lightbulb?”

“I am already on the floor rolling with laughter.”

“Do that on my floor and I’ll have you mopped out of here.”  An effort to frown – another person might have found an easier time to grimace.  “Not this one, I said.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Relieved of fulfilling the duty to frown, “I told him, these are halogen light bulbs, each one of them.  They all shine white, a conglomerate of colors that add together to be white.  If you switch one to a regular light bulb, the entire spectrum of warmth is changed.  I told him, okay, so change this bulb here or this bulb here, or even those over there, but this one here, if you change this one, the entire spectrum shifts to a kind of spotlighting.  It’s not like we are running some kind of reality show here, no nothing like that.”

“No, not so much.”

The tele, the tube, the TV played on: a commercial selling some sort of an egg, made of porcelain, with measures on the side.  Background noise was created to lower the volumes on the stereo.  Types of daffodils.





4. The field of streams

What?  The letters sprinkled.  A drizzle - sounds softly the intimate letters below radar beneathe the sound of the jade color rain.  

Chuckles, set in the froth of the ebbs and flows, edging between bevels carved by glaciers, brightened up the little room beneath the stairs.  The smell of coffee, above the subtler sense of cream and sugar, permeate the walls, through the ply and insulation layers, and wooden columns.  The curtains, slightly molded from moistures gathered during fall, shone a dirty yellow: no shadow was cast.

Was the coffee burning?  A deep scent, an aroma of something like coffee, but a bit deeper, tickled the conversation suspending in midair.  Suspending!  More like acrobatic flipping, turning, reaching, throwing, flying, dancing… but too it seemed suspending, and motioning a little slower than was happening.  Perhaps the wine, or the cheese – and how many cheeses are here – was substrating this tingling of senses and memory.  

Whatever the meaning of the columnade, so grand and reaching upwards beyond the reach of my arms, whatever the scale of the tourists in the picture, so imperfectly set in the two point perspective as to be lifted out of the perspective onto the picture plane, so had been the meaning of the photographer...?  Photos scattered across the table, photographers in absentee, and the table, brought over from the antique junkshop two turns around the hill and across from the traffic light, gleamed softly under the pasty orange lamp.

Late past midnight, around the hours of two or three, that would be about eight or four hours from now, someone might come and help order the photos, clean the table, sort out this, this…  Perhaps they would also like to take the curtain down.  The laundry machines - racketche racketche – they would have to wait til tomorrow though, however much the rhythmics of mechanic rotators might spin some spin onto the sound of languid yearnings for the passing of midnight.  

A half dozen donuts piled neatly beside the photos, the white carton box in discard on the floor beside the table.  Piling neatly on a white porcelain plate, they tasted a little stale at first glance, and upon the second, began to look a little like food displayed on menus outside restaurants.

Salmon; no, tuna.  On rice, with white carrots, spiced, and coconut juice.  Fancy that: to exchange one room for another – this room for a boat… the sound of surf for the crickets’ song, the deep nights’ aromas for fresher smells from gulls’ habitat?  And what then, when the table is cleared; would then be when the intimate notes be written… and when sent?





5. Bottl’o’mssages

“And all these people, don’t their voices matter?  How are they supposed to speak under this, this media blanket?”  

“I don’t believe that.  Didn’t you read the new philosophers already.”

“Which one… oh, you mean one of the fictional ones, like Camus or Sa -“

“Those guys been out for like centuries… On the other hand, that group, oh, who am I thinking…”

“Well, no, I mean – wikipedia them, tons of people still read them…”

“Yeah?”

“You dabble and dillettante, as if the world is all of yours…”

“Sure,” I wasn’t in the business to make cases.  “I’m no lawyer, and I’m not trying to make cases.”

Haha.

“Don’t even start…”

“And that’s your problem.  What’s the deal so big that you can’t get anything started up?”

“Starting things is easy.  It’s all about getting big fast.  Bigger faster better heavier.  Have to hit them fast right.  No sense in trying to do anything if you can’t make it big.  Go big or go home.”

Pause.

“Alright, kinda stupid.”

“It’s from a pop song… um… the last bit was mine.”

“Maybe an ad or somethin’.”

“Ads… art of the century…”

The light bulb above the table blinked.

“Which one?”

Pause.

“You’re a lawyer – you can figure it out…”

“I have always wondered… Isn’t it when… and how… to recognize which…”

“Go on…”

“There’s like a field, or somethin’… and in changing… that’s…”

There are these moments, so close to home.  Precarious and unknown, when the light is a little too bright to confirm clarity and reason, a sense of a very almost.  This was not one of those moments that never were, as the case be that they tend to shine even brighter during recall.  

“…yet, to spell it out… how to create that slight surplus so as to be for…”

“Is it a subtle, delicate negotiation?”

“Hm.. Didn’t you use to read on art history…”

Nod.  

“I jus’ was reminded of this story, of a sculptor… He got a commission, a big one… to do a sculpture… A number of people, quite a few in fact… can’t quite remember if the patron as well… they came to him and opined on how to do it… They asked and opined so finally he decided to do two… one a conglomerate from the advising… and another by his own inspir – “

“There is a point to this?”

“Well – “





6. bureau of foyers

“The season has not changed so…”

Partier, you are here.  There exists a link, a portal through which a thousand sights are held in reservation, where the light drips through, slowly, this is where the phrase the sands of time was coined.  This is where conservation is the door prize. 

Contrary to various brochures held in archives, these places of annals being respectable and well-maintained for their histories and historical importance, contrary to the records and linguistic oversight in describing, this link, portal, this location does not consist so much in a well. Indeed, despite various analogies, it is not even like a well, does not even like wells.

A kite leads the way here.  A kite, written with petals of a forgotten leaf, flown by the whims and wisps of the clouds’ languid, liquid madness that though mad, would sing less than Uncle Joe’s tractor for a day.  Kites are not said to have a will of their own, but they do, and by this subtle gaze upon clarity do these kites, since liberated, find a current upon which to flow on here.

There is a forgotten stairway, behind the hills, one particular hill that is round round about top, never snowcapped, as just before regarding the brochures, made of nothing but stone, a once igneously formed rock.  Vanilla extract and sterling silver draw-extend outwards the way upwards the stairwell, each step lighter upon the complements of rings and bells.  Felt and silk once imagined their pace with budding grass rising from the steps, though long ago was it that they shifted with a wayward wind, who insisted on the manner of steps

Where are the thousand signs pointing and signifying this feature of our landscape, where are the lights and glitz signifying and announcing the being-here of this dream?  Somewhere lost in locked basements of dusty pictures, were they scattered like ashes in the giant crater an asteroidal encounter; something between folders crisping away asleep on a silicon circuit a metal frame.  Where did the pictures go, were they along with the receipts, the cameras, the book guides, on the supply shelves?

Where clouds shuffle and metals alight, upon the prairies on the drier seasons, it was said that the tempestuous one sleeps lightly.  The low ceiling becomes lower and flashes most indecently: there was no promise of great feasts.  Make or die, the message seemed to carry a dark tone, and creepiness.  Waves are clouds that shuffle quicker than the other ones, lonely lectures that last from the earlier, if part of this eon, to the late late show.  Popcorn, and coffee, at this hour, you can usually get free.  At this hour, if you find the jewels belonging to the tempestuous one to be less than jewels, and the stones that make up steps…

“We did not bring the key.”

Why not bring what is of necessity would yield more answers than we had pails for.  The hills roll up and down where shoes break their soles before demanding a nursing of an elixir, the hills they are rolling even as shoes yell for another elixir.  Why then not pails that store an infinite number of items, the bottomless pails, or better yet, bottomless pails with wheels, and speakers and mics and gyroscopes so we run like the rovers over cliffs and hills.  The sky lied earlier in the day when he promised to stay the glimpse of candies in hot bitter chocolate where steam rise to the savor and delight of morning birds at dawn, their favorite hour.

The path onto the stairs used to be treacherous, the second wizard had always foretold such to those who wish for the path.  Wishes though they do not come in pails often fill up sooner than you expect like soda at the train station as the passengers levitate off onto the local platform.  The way yaddis arrive at a sanctuary place without sound while you have nodded off, the surprise and dislocating breath drawn out to a lower peace; that is also similar.  Keys though, open up the hyperpass, the shortchange shuttle that arrive on demand and switch out every luxury available at station when you turn the key… this is home.

The gall, she thought.  Lilies were white and yellow, small flowers of a fresh disposition of gladness.  Shuffling her feet, shifting the weight from one to another, a transparent container with some fluid inside, swiggling.  She crouched, kneeling one knee, and picked up dirt and all a small cluster of flower with leaves and deposited the tiny ecosystem into the flat silent jar with the liquid swiggling, slighter now.  Although the key is a matter that holds relatively little influence over a mind adapted already, why, why not.

“How did we leave the key, a tab on the table, that was when we saw it last…”

She has magnet sealed the jar, holding it up to her eyes, standing then, and swiggled it a little.  A smile almost reaching her face, as the moisture predictably reach float energy and suspends almost visibly.  She holds it up against the light, a quick diagnosis already touching upon the pet and her own conscious mind, the health and well being, in general, its own and the area’s.  They share a rhizomic ancestry and commonality, a community by their own rights.

Maybe they will tell us the address, this foyer, that light drip, the locale.





7. “Costs…”

Has always been a sensitive issue.  A same in each case, a different across the different cases.  How many same issues can come up around the same topic?

The Uupah is the new pedestal, the fresh stage, the rancid and the scandalas’ sweet spot.  Why not?  He recalled the moments before the launch, the cast party that did uphold, the rocket ships, cannon wheels, the giant rubberband, the candy on five sticks in the shape of a star or also moon, mermaid, and ship.  Tickets scored no more and no less than the ipsup, the ticketman and the ticketlady always had the glare like their crib scored more than the doc’s.  Taking was never an option but the costs have to balance out on the balance books after the fact, don’t they?

This is a story of the Uupah, the land of an infinite the flamboyance, where the spotlights are the highlights.  The story begins with a breeze, briefly a breath that is having a longing for the chaste, yet cheap on the run.  Although the runs were wee bit but figuring little, their contributions in the journeys of road rains and battered license plates, they are the wayward means staging between puffs of lifes that describe and pull together our stories that will become this story.  By way of an introduction, in the land of the Uupah, there are such as travelers and fairies, as well paper-folding scouts, quick-wit journeymen, ring-ring semi-toned camera operators, frizzly dressed county veratis, and more.  Where there is an arrival, a space we call the foyer is not at all that uncommon.  Like foyers in textbooks but often portion of an open rolling plain, free of organic mash, nor fungi natural growth.  This is the foyer, smells like new furniture still wrapped in protective layering, like condos before housewarming before the move-in.  The Foyer smells the same, stays the same with nothing changed; nothing changes even after the move in’s.

Somewhere backwards in time was this moment of a move-in.  Although not many people move in here, now, ever, anytime or seemingly, evermore, a celebratory tone had taken the nature of a normal when the move-in happened. 

White fizz, and color ribbons, as well as rice, white, brown, and red, as well a specially prepared tune.

What fizz, and color strings, will bring about a rainbow on the lake, ahem, the cake, now wheeling towards wheeling into the special ballroom.  On both sides are palm trees, if that were what they are, would the shingles glow in such a way, like a wink that blinks the world into color, Technicolor?  The ballroom has “room” in quotations, by means demarcating only a where.  Here, foyers are here one and here there another, although almost always they are on land, as is generally considered that things are confusing enough as they are.

Goblets and gnomes are not at all uncommon here, like birds of multicolor feathers, they find and make their own place.  Though not uncommon and generally not seen nor treated as a “special”, to say endangered, animal – mammal, they do require, according to hidden signages, a something akin to a license.  That is, they too require submitting multiple forms and making a payment at certain predetermined accounts at some decided upon amount to, to go fishing, of course.

Gnomes and robots form a different class, category, or group.  Semi-transparency procedures are offered to those displaying certain aptitude in certain areas, not excluding the art of walking on water, the motion by invisible tracks, the ability to predict weather, and so on.

Not so, however, can one be exempt from the road show and millennium party. Not so that one can be exempt, the local lines run longer for overseeing the townships, ahem, the settlements that would be town were not the terms be laid out so frankly on neat legal papers and piles.  

Vases of plastic and glass acrylic flowers with shadows made of feathery intricacies, line the lone book shelf at the top of the room, a tip of days lasting longer than the night cap tonic, or whiskey.  The clock tocks a few times and tapers off, an awareness not lost on the visitor.





8. Sea gulls

Startling is leisure by the breeze from afar that breathes an in-and-out, the study revealing nothing more though nothing becomes less than before.  People were talking, letting the cranklings and pranglings of the joy in their voices trickle outwards away from tables losing paint, like steam rising, from the basement.

The tension in the room was indescribable, a melody of splinters, parodies, and badly conceived parties on evenings that would yield happier to a tonic or even bitter tea from the east.  On an armchair or memory foam sofas, under a lamplight softer than the eye can describe.  And orange or yellow, this light would be, by lines and lines that wrap around and behind walls, of old books that smell faintly like herbs that promise a quick healing by moonlight.  Rooms in a house with people of different means and a typewriter, the kind of room with a picture space on the wall, without a picture, but clearly demarcated nevertheless, by its lightness in contrast by color.

A rose by any other color…

Fresh drinks were badly in order, for the evening show would be beginning in a snap of a finger’s time, momentarily, ladies and gentlemen, please turn off your celphones, the arrival of the seascape, the feathery skies.

Between seconds, and the odd yelp and the young parents’ adoration and immediate response, the seats held silence, not so an anticipation that wields further wandering through the magazine from the counter while the tickets were paid for, but something else.  The commute to the ice-cream stand by your friendly and quietly achieved immigrant couple takes approximately, well, just slightly longer than would be termed an “easy-run” although a “be right back baby” could easily do the job just as well.  The rice with tomatos and vegetable based sauce was excellent, nothing can be less satisfying than a well organized meal by the trees along roadside under an umbrella.

The gravel and pebbles are the dream from another year, never the eons hidden in these dirts, shipped over from Hawaii, though not marked appropriately with nano signage, having made their way over the expansion by shuttle, rail, and bus, in the earlier days when dreams were spoken.  The first voyage was carried over through the deep rumbles of old men and women’s stories, their reports having transformed already in the gleam and brightness, laughters melted during the byway.

Spring is a season afforded for the young in name only.  The for is lost between the accounting books; whenever the do meets the do, dollar signs mutate and varify, the code was changed already, but the horizon floating above the gleaming the diffracted the feeling of brightness lighting striving back up towards the sun, the horizon that floats upon the sea in its own unidentifiable color in lightness, it has changed already.





9. 

The path was defined, determined, with or by weeds. 

Wheels were made with straw, the nature of which was never discovered.

Formulas hid the condensation process, or did they?  A whiz by the station; could not touch the statuette, which was raised by two slender support.  The silt was cultivated although you could never tell.  Smoothness, coarseness, they are of careful gradients, a difficult complex of guidelines, cultivated - the landscape was regular, it was.

Growth was fungi, cultivated also, according to legend.

The prairies were something else, were they hills, were there mountains here?  There are paths, allegedly, that do not meander from the natural and the intelligent. 

These are not abstract paths; they are the garden paths, walkways untouched by diesel fantasias and carbon digesters.  Legendary paths cultivated by smaller tadpoles.  Silk, markets and bazaars have not yet allayed the concerns to rest, the import of handicrafts from such a place. 

Costs are material, not abstract.

Bottles and little jars of fluids had become audience with galleries elsewhere.  They did not send report.  Fluctuations in the linear media showed a pattern the dawned onto the meaning of.  Did this happen yesterday?  The channels changed on their own, a gossamer of figments, fractures, and fragrances. 

...

"If you are asking..."

"Nobody is asking!" The brunch always starts like this, as a subsequence, a then-after to a morning that should have slept in, which was instead captured with tubes and engines, waving cabs down against the morning sun, and stepping into a puddle despite a dry spell the entire week.  And then, the lines.  Wasn't there a reservation, of course the name is on the list, but the table was for five, and now there is only the three of us, the other two with the promise to arrive promptly after brunch.  Yes, we'll call after the omelette before the coffee.

"They changed something, is it the table cloth...?"

"Watch it," It's really a table for two, with an extra chair.

The light spills through curtains of lace, the waitress busily brushing the hair out of her face with the back of her hand holding a pen, as garcon brashly spilled ten drops of water onto said table cloth, placing the three glasses onto the table with more on the tray.

The charge!  Someone else's celphone rings, and elbows meet in a shockingly brief yet profound conversation.

"Much... Mushrooms and cheddar... No, just mushrooms please, they are fresh from this morning..?" The waitress found no problem with the order, which was just as well, as the next table was already hassled. 

"I brought the baby album!"

"Let's see, Oh My - "

What happened to the glass of - is it too early for a drink?

"Cake," he pointed, "What is that kind right there... No... not the orange cream, next to ... right, what is that?  Mousse?  It's really so early for - oh, but why not.  Yes, yes, with whipped cream on the side.  What?  I know, I shouldn't, you would not believe the week I have had.  I have to tell you about Thursday... Yes, just water, thanks."

Attention to the album!  Why didn't they ask me what I wanted for a drink?  Attention to the album!  

"That is just adorable... No, Thursday was just a regular day, really... You really ought to check out the boutique on forth.  They have the cutest little bonnets, they are handmade in Bali, you know...”






10. 

Ring-ins are unceremonious, relatively.  Miles and miles to go, the sea becomes warm with the thought of silver gestures that seep by.  A long byway by the erroneous calculation which yields the correct amount by the world of atoms.  There were three kinds of skies, atmospheres almost perfect though not without static, that cross their purviews from quotients at the pavilions.  Divisions yielded fibers that were of slightly higher value than grown in isolations in warm houses, this is a myth that had overriped on the dark fields.  Calculations had not previously yielded the unknown quantity, valued closer to a near equity, on the long run much more valuable.

...

Missing the capsula again.  Arriving, he stood still.  As still as the station, any station a place can claim stillness in the materialized of materials, a platform's likeness.  The silver tracks receded into the distance, in the receding, rang louder than sound from a primitive, though simple, count.  The reloop would take longer than a lifetime of a eerie, although times do not wait here.  The track recedes on this direction indicates the propellent force and on this direction the orientation, or potential forth.  Missing the capsula means the quota waits another gregorian, true, but this also means the loop would go doubly fast out of necessity to arrive sooner, post-delay.  The engineers have to make an adjustment, in this case, before the expectancies reveal themselves to be half-finished.  Missing the capsula does not mean a call has to be placed to the engineers, however, as the weight of the capsula would not have increased.  The elasticity of the materials making up the platform becomes pronounced with the missing.  Two crates of feather is lighter than two crates of steel on another standard. 

A feathered dragon had been rumored to reside in the sixteenth precinct, the first turn of the series behind the crossroads. 

The train would have carried a few more series each by each, although become highly uneconomical by verification on the second check.  Never would happen though, such a case, before the second eon. 

"Ug," he uttered, eyeing the crates on the rollers.

Impassive was the tone of the echo by the glass ceiling.  Why, two hundred years ago, the quartz would have been a kind of material resembling the frozeness of melted sand. 

There is another rumor, this regarding the nature of breeze.  A swing band had started it, long ago or from the future, for a reason that was very excellent indeed.  There were at times a courier who showed at their pub just outside of Norway, who had accustomed herself to bringing news from other seas.  The news were often long and windy, with unnecessary details that littered the pages over scrolls of details, a never-ending story that found synchrony with the bubbles of beers, lagers that shone from the music live at the pub.  Before the shows, and sometimes after, animations are shown on various walls, especially the one two stories up, where on the other side mast and lamppost are.  The animations were especially lively there, as the winds sometimes varying spoke politely with the surfaces and satellites, outside, while inside the players and friends sip champagne.

Heat; it is the excitation of atmospheres.  Black delta molten platforms are the rage of the day.  A short walk from the first colrow is a medium sized burrow pass.  It lifts about a hundred seventy-five steps from out surface-terra upon an almost linearly progression ascent.

Should have asked the m.w. to send along the envelop or at least the whereabouts of the chip, embedded or extraneously inscribed, so for easy radar development, radio communication or other glitters that occasionally captures the glitz. 

There was nothing to the second rumor.  Skewed like metered spans, claim less than a pen.





11. 

The lander was granite-made, in the style of off-globe retroactive decay, this turning began as the arid surface cooled with the cooling of the subterranean fire.  The lander was mercury, the dissolution of planets unwritten from the annals of prehistorical datings; the meteor shone blue after a long century of dark neon.

The noon was cooler than usual, about 50 degrees cooler, fie, the color of shadows of cards, flip-turning across the Rooms, and straight as arrows, on the control decks.  The noon rang in with a doze of recitals, steadily fed and accumulated in the back capsules, like grapes in barrels, before winter time.  About a dozen, supposed, the backburner hummed an elixir of dull circles. 

"Not much work today," the sweat gleamed beneath detection.

"Flies," the wall would be crawling with them, "an empty store couldn't fair better."

The denim blue-belt reflector overalls about leaning onto the stack of quotas, overdue to be shipped for the next nodic point.  The receipts were missing, nudged between cords and ports.  Crevasses and 'nooks, where breezes turn corners and book recesses for breaks.  The stress levels ain't never hitting the detectors, chrome as they may be, lining the tempered glasses.

"Yup, not much, not much."  Complaints always begin in the style of receipts from olden days, these become the best novels, the most popular bestsellers, back on the original, the original sector.

"Have you the lock and code," the instructions never arrive here.  Blame is with the last two segments of wires and lines, with the stress of scenes piling up, washing up from the ocean of radiowaves insisting on seeing land.  There was also a bleep with the rub, would have been out of commission, but they are sending a new wrap, with a new click-and-make.

The quotas are same all and all - they have become resistant with the changing lights in severals, staying the same even as with the tips and apexes of the radiotides.  

The receipts are still missing.

Instructions, not even those for the patches of soldering, "We be suspectin'..."

Noise coveted.  Above the dome behind the set, the light began to change as the temperature dropped another few degrees.  The surface at a closer zoom found ripples and trembles previously undetected now remain undetected further.

"We be suspectin', ain't no use suspectin'... There hasn't been a truck here for an eon forth.  I brought with me two trunks of blue labels, they be staying with the receipts in the crannies where I wouldn't expect this to be... I haven't called... Nobody calls anymore, but the deck seems to be working still."

"I've brought the other crates to the ground level again."

"The blue labels are back with a vengeance."

There is a cheer too, this inevitability would have been written in earlier with the acrylic shortener, although why or who was responsible for such trivial tasks can sometimes fall onto the books, the books with the receipts, where the receipts are kept, in the books.  On the ground level there are showrooms.  There is one showroom in which shows are played in a perfect loop; this is the Almost Perfect showroom. 

"The lug is needing a tuneup."  More receipts are the orders of the day.  Tiptoeing around the grids means the grids become limited in their grid-like appearance, and sometimes, as a result, the oil spills over, seeping from an other-side that should be on the other side just behind the walls.  Why the surfaces here tend to peel only when the machineries echo from the switch marked Remote remains an associated mystery, even so as the walls tend to fix themselves, an autohealing type of surface.  They shine nice too, just like and unlike most things elsewhere it says on the package, in this case, on a sticker over the shrinkwrap of some quality made with handheld devices found in second hand factories where elsewhere.

"Did you check the specs from the publishers, you can't be too careful you know. They are boring, I know, to read over and over, or you can let me do that if you can run up the quota counts again.  I know we did that already last gregorian... it won't make on time anyway to the next sector and they will just call us again really."

The rotund toner below surface clicked into a spin.  A seam of light stole into purview in far space.  There was less than rebels who could overtake the relief into moments of silence for respect so natural would be a delicacy elsewhere. 

The moments were given by the spoonfuls, usually.  Unmarked bottles and light engravings on the spoons.

"Yeah, I can do that. The count was good, they actually didn't post over the previous series... I spent two afternoons with the posts first, just to make sure... they seem to have done the job fine..."

"Did they send us the specs this time?"

Spares.









SECTION 2




1. 

When the drops of the rain came platter, plattering down, they bounced nearly and slid slyly or quietly upon the plasticky green leafs' surfaces, the hour was barely, just barely, of age to the day.  Somewhere by footsteps beyond the surface of a forest before the sprightly sprightly of a creek, coals sizzled and blew off steam.  A plastic bag imported from the islands, an archepelago south of the equator and east of a parallel, had been in flight, blown in by a waywardness a wind undreamt.  As the stream trickled was recalling, the fair labels of the wayward had suggested, stocks from the fields are down, again, but those on the glass jars, they are starting to look up.  But, with the breeze what was left of the discussion went, and that was that.

Can ever?  Overhead behind the veils and cloaks by shadows or light casted by volumes by underfoot was a ground that breathes and moves.  And distance recedes, a treasure unfounded in a distance is a treasurefound, said the boots.

The plastickiness of the large green leaves was greeting, what was withheld previously seemed to seep, if only slightly or slowly, from below foot.  The branches overhead, motivated by the laziness and morning stretching of the atmosphere, twirl and twirl, a ritual of greets with the early atmosphere.  Did the rustle this morning carry a coyness, or were the leaves truly feeling restless the frustrations carried voer by restlessness in tidy clear parcel wraps, unit by unit, boxes forgotten.  Bigger containers were flattened and left, by now must be quite damp in the midst of morning and rainings passing by.

A whistle from afar - “whsu...”

Or was it a bird cry?

Oftentimes ashore, to say, on the dock, the pier where a navy boat, of a large fleet it was, had anchored and set ashore for home now, as one could have been to surmise later... Ashore there, this was where the thought had occurred, at first.  Upon the wasted freshness of inland seas that too have docked with concrete embarkment.

Oftentimes ashore, cymbals reign with the certainty of lattices and inscriptions lining the breathes of prayers, where songbirds slip for cover by dawns and evenings, a response with them, a sense of something of offerings communal.

Even here, where leaf and leaves are overhead and thousand worlds below the lines of sight, the sight of somethings, evaporating, breathe a sigh of relief.

Before the undulating a motioning sound rolls, calls of early risers.  Flocks of blue grey birds that visit in flocks each morning.  Before the evaporates from the morning brew reach the cool swept glass, and condensates, rolling down the pane.

The night before there were a few children playing downstairs.  By the plaza where the dark waters are, where marble slabs rose up by steps of perfect squares, risen steps what float upon an inky abyss.  The brave children play on, jumping from and to another, hopping over these bridges unending, as dusk at the horizon paused as though to contemplate dawn.

I think this as I am upon a bridge,  as  a plane flies overhead.

I think I am your bridge, too; and this while a plane flew by above.

There was a lodge somewhere, somewhere in the world, where after dusk they turn down the lights, where they do his still.  Along the long dark hall I walk.  I walk down the long hall, where faces come out from the dark emerging and submerging again, and then.

And I am a bridge too, the wanderings of breezes seemed to whisper carrying herein a desire more ancient than.  Carried over upon dusts and sweats of travellers and short-changed exchanges in scriptic currencies in paper are unspoken memories and dreams.

Yes, I am a bridge too as the breezes rise and fall in the conversing with twigs and leaves that rise and fall with the twinkling of the birds' talk, bringing a seeming to the park like a harbinger's early consideration at the bash.  Made of marble by craftmen from out east over, similarly, crafted craftiness – a wave of sea weeds rising softly by a cloud and  clouds unseen over occasion, docks hidden behind bushes and beneath read pathways, and later, briefly, over crowds, frolicking, before brunch.





2. 

This is a deserted island, you know -

A desert island?  A dimness showed through, seeping in through the dull; another sound, a knock on the door, a clear, a clairvoyance, afforded by the maple oak with a barely finished surface.

Memory was soft; if by every way there is one more way we say can come to be by our wishes alone, a purple flower would bloom, would they not, on every half moon.  There were promises that still sing, tunes wearling about an intertwining the intertwinings, curtains in the breeze you cannot reach to touch that is filtering light from an outside that is either too cold or too hot.

Mornings would have bought the papers, wrinkled a little from the morning's moisture.  The rug would be heavy, did it ruin the night before, or is this the dust weighing heavy, sitting low in the layered straws and twine. 

The knock, would there have been a ring instead, an old fashion ding-a-ling, or a full scaled tune, a ring-tone, n'est-ce pas?  And the mail in a next pile by the door, or the stove, waiting by then to come home with the dog who finally is fully recovered, according to the vet, though we all know Rush have thought otherwise all along since the second week.

This is a desert island, you know.

Who knew, but why not.  This seems to give an answer of sorts.  A meaning of sorts, mud and sand a shake for afternoon tea, or coffee.  Perhaps formerly a better meal of sorts, service would be slower still, a meal on a menu though – how can this compare?

The chair is creaky, the metal has sunk in by behind the neofoam, the ledge is bent, upwards, and the ground curves, a plane twisting by its own volition upon the third dimensional.

Abirch is recovering too, in a garden that had bared its soul to the winter soul, professing all its glories and its shames, voiced but slightly for its small misgivings and sing though for now by a dryer tone for the wealth that is to be the future, the constancy of the leaves to stay green and gold for the seasons abound is a prayer for the oft and the often more.

The knock outside; outside, the knock, visitor unseen, invisible, materializing out of the drizzling film this rain.





3. 

Spent moments considering the weight of raindrops, the materiality of trees.  Letters were sent who spend moments in echoes, by vacuum tubes; the ceilings.  Ring, ring.  Next door the grey suit pondered, contemplated, and thought up new ways to send barrels of oil across sea, and new destinations.  We put a suit, ironed, on a new hanger, plastic and new, then on a nail hook we put on this wall earlier.

A show was waiting on Broadway to open where curtains velvet are waiting, a breezed like dust in the wind, you know, the Merlot, in the cupboard, is warm.

Back by the pier, on the bridge or overpass that offers a view, a lookout point, out to the dock, a small one, where smaller boats have temporarily anchored, boarders out to lunch.

There is a small kiosk stand about five blocks east of, where a short man and wife of an ethnic origin, possibly caucasian, and unidentified accent, sell shish kabab as well as various soft oversized and exotic (meaning hard to find) cancy, and of course the usual gamut of can sodas.

Lunch hour for fishing; nights, to be out with the ol' boys, and girls, at the pub, at the pub, at the pub...

Fancy; never seen a wedding held at evening.  That was last week.  Over the wire, the sea of data, wedding rings, and ring tones, are excanged with vows, French bread, and cookies, at all hours of the day.  I fancy attending a weddinground about seven twenty nine some autumnal night, preferably with wine and tea, or wine-flavored tea, as the cases well may be.

Darker chocolate holds open the taste for blood, he said.  A danger no doubt was meant to lace the line, were not the company in such hurry to wave down a cab, and rush forward toward the future of the past.

Somewhere along the way I lost my soul, she said.  The romance unerringly would have shone right through and imbued the room with lace and rhythm.  Somehow, yet or yet, the snooze button props up on its own impulse again.





4. 

Lengths, though, can strengthen; sinews, an inborn tendency, to fill, as if upon a exponential undefinable, add upon its own, and strengthen.  Bars do not break that which weigh in the weighing upon.  A gravity is force, felt the summer upon his shoulders, biceps, calves.  The reflectance index breaks even on a balance with copper frame, shining polish.

Wanda moved slowly, across a path of various volumes.  Yet memory does not recall any moment better.  Far is the bridge that must be crossed, even as dreams drift drizzle, slowly, steadily; suspends.  A car, or two, roll by, upon signs and signals, red orange green.  Was there a rain, a rain patting the window panes?  She thought perhaps a bird couple had taken their place up on top over the awning; a shelter for bicycles.

...

Secondly, a clock trickles seconds trough a hyperreal; a hyperbole.  Short were moments that seek backyards, of sweeter decors like swings, ladders, bicycles, and designer slides.  Fathom, why, how does this assembly – yet such does.  No less, no more, but by that which distraction dissolves in face of something clearer, this is called clarity.  Concentration, come hither, to this cafe, my conversation cafe, this concentrating place of a cafe.

Rings plus twinkles align they dot this small string of minutes, seconds, and time.  The tapestry swept upon the breeze of a wind that, dryer, breathes a hint of perhaps seasons to come.  This still asked only the matter of a stillness, be still, be still.

Whose eyes were they, those inkwells; where is the well and the pail of dreams.

Plain was not how to describe the act of reality; the dreamt had not yet awaken. 

Parchment substrate mixed with the age of tapestry, a flavor of ink lightened the dusky air of this dusky air of this single room apartment

...

Raised up higher was tune by violin, or cello, a middle tone that resonated with the rumbles of water through pipes that line ceiling and walls...  Lack of interest became like flakes of a microscale but saturated the flow of currents nevertheless, foretelling the evening to come.  Or not, even as the act was taking place, a matter was changing its very own nature, and for what reason, but simply, that a cuckoo had landed on the char next.  The fence, though made evidently of iron, took bars become bending, notes becoming dancing – a dancing then is happening.  Waking fe was iron some oxidation orange rust become like stars, sprinkling air, a sing, a song, a seeming longing belonging to a tune in fresh motion if an already motion.  The waking will has a say too.

...

A window of fresh painted rolls ajar.  A making open, a not yet decided.  Water stilling from the touch of sparrow, this long rectangular pool, a bath or fountain in which or for which so many dreams have casted their light and breath and their very own versions that reflectance was no longer of a color, but a nature of its own.  Silver is the closest to name.

...

A space of encounter reopens.

...
before Disney
    
“Fred,” an echoes found its ways about the planes by way of the corridor.

An every-sound trickled by on entry like a second loop of rhythms slyly weaving through the main body of a track.  Made like with on ebony, an ivory sculpture pondered the moment and for then pretended attention to the sounds trickling through.  Maybe it's the hour of the seasons, this segment as usual rings through an almost-almost, and brings a prescience best held on in reserve.  “Can you help bring the jumper?”  Fallacies did not ring the some tune as resonated metal pane in alloy, in other ways of building perhaps though not so for carriages made with the stuff of dream logic.  In case the unresolvable should arise, this is the reason for the special tool rooms, to house special fail safe moments, to preserve pockets of tune in case unthinkables should happen.

Fred popped his upper person half way into the small enclosure bearing a note of grimace or surprise, “ I left it in the tool case here, as with them waiver forms, they be here lest they came through yesterday and took them down dek cos there be a leak wit that ventillator engine -”

The pipe overhead was leaking an oily fluid of high viscosity; it glided for awhile along the second delta pipe before releasing unto suspension about the sustained air.

“Maybe check again I will do - “

With a grin and disappearing and removing himself from purview of Foreman.  Fred slipped up words to beneath the tubeway and let himself back out, towards the lounge area where he had been keeping his own company, for this segment at least, reviewing continuous logs of continuous terrestrial events.

...

I will dream only as far as you show me

The ephemera of substance takes on a personality, a persona characterizzed by the nonceasing the seeming of folds ephemera.  Psychedelia described, did not begin in a blatency and rather in the event of a seed germinating, the quick sprouting though as though in slow-mo by rides, an activating.  Behold! Beheld, no, it has not quite so the same magic as chocolate that melt and yet something about it, a likeness of reminder and ingenuity and semblance that does amaze and surprise all the same, and what lies behind the curtain of craft, the unsaid, the costlier manifold.

Of the masses, in the great unconscious.

The reconnaissance takes place in stages, phases echoing in steps, by unsung melodies that weave through the dreams of so many enfants, children, youths, full-growns, and elders – the ways and the milestones, cornerstones, rivers of delights, rainbows of our own makings... transmits like songs without memories, where our radios can care from former states, and so reinforced, be raised to summits and higher, for higher and lighter clouds.

Do not rain...

The rain brought a jacuzzi of cats and dogs, a curtain awashed with blue and orange bones, a scrambling that re-delineates, like glass jugs full of pennies that ding-dong'ed all the way to Tennessee on a truck rolling, rumbling, skittling over pebbles and dirt shining upon the dews of dawn.

They say, the wolves dance where.  And fiddles make magic banjos do not, leaves whisper codes undescipherable upon human ears alhtough a few wizards and magic women have been rumored to tell between lines and twigs to decipher a few songs, apt for early risers and recovering warms.  Maybe a few still remember their songs, but that was a lie too, brothers and sisters gather now and then to recall together this little secret of a lie of forgetting.  No not a lie then at least a thought of so and such then...





5. 

“I was – am so close to myself

The cabin was dark, intermittently, by seconds did the dusk brashly and hastily shone and extinguished, zebra crossing by the lighting distinguishing.

Opposite was dark, ink wells the eyes shone, from behind the dimmed.  The rumble enunciated the constancy withheld where stories had taken refuge, behind the dim, behind the dimmed.

“I had not told you the way,” the pause signified more than he intended for words he had given to light for all the glory the being of light granted for a world existent. “ - before -”

Weariness had taken hold, had not taken hold.  The odour the tarp wore, crinkled, enfolded, enclosed worlds upon worlds (words?) not know shall remain unknown forever, and paths beginning and ended by declarations of abyss, even there a silence was holding.  Would have been, could have been, a sort of respect given to moments that even regret hold no claim for long.

A path, a path is very long.  A moment, a moment is very short.

“I was dreaming “

“And you was asleep”

Tasks, impossible they were.  Not even the slihtest hint to clue into the for that turned upon their own circuits.  The destination could have been listed, were there the means to a brochure.  The destination could have been listed; nobody knew better, yet nobody knew less.  So this still is, in some ways by some days' ways of saying and being – by the end of the speech was elegantly told, there was no truth in that.

“I knew a pair of twins, once. “

Nobody knew the answer to the question she would ask, yet they knew when, where?  The bisections continued in their play in the industrial rumble, between perfect strangers.

Although they had listened to to one another, snoring.  Were the only sounds that dared dance upon the almost strictly platonic tumble  was this manner of communication this antiquated dance took to communicate the naturalness of reality of all, belonging... a place faraway, the original sector, a place I called home.






6. 

Round about mid-evening when swallows cruise low finds refuge in ballrooms between the twigs of evergreens, and elevators by air, song seemed rare if not for the rising of the rumbling of concrete sets.  Orange and red, suits on blue uniform, long since creased though tucked in for good form feigns an urgency that becomes real with the rising of the night orchestral fog.

Molecular weight weighs in on a brisker scale for a civilian fit.  Rings are brought in from faraway lands, from exotic lands, the sale direct with the princes and princesses of these unknown realms.  Courteous though the transactions were and always will be, the buy-and-sell of jeweleries are often confined to silicon and other synthetic tracks, on or off-shore.  There haven't been anyone around here for a meaningful duration, for a meaningful encounter, for some and some time.  Clocks are running, a fact amiss between dusty leafs by the wizard's chest.  Momentos tip and perch precariously over a cascading shelf, less and less do they carry memories as much as magic, musik from a neopast.  A concert of drunks await, hidden for now under counters and tops, prenumbras already nudging the spectra of deluges, now-go now-stop of disco lights.

The self has a sort of no-sense (or non-sense?) here.

Space has dilated by terms of planes, wide angle lenses afford the opening, someday, of the old play of indivisible movement, maybe a reality between the oscillations belonging to a universe on a bridge.  The bridge, it is undecorated though twilight falls, or seems to, on a current of message, between the hour of fries and that of coffee.  A painting seemed to emerge on the second nearest pane, and disappeared.

They chased her, they did.  And the nether of a recess seemed beyond.  The secular, upon finding better company with a elsewhere, was previously a good enough reason for a rhizomic investigation.  A composer by an other name, the lizard king sits in a aquarious tank, the outer layer a condensation of high value minerals that in gaseous form condensed.  Of a higher value, the gaseous minerals are, and no wonder.  Even on the original sector, tanks of higher purities are sought after, albeit for different reasons, probably.

Hymns, chorus.  A sweeter tone.  Like the color of skies rising over the river that by strife or chance had flickered its way through long barren lands that have forgotten the meaning of color and so relegate the reminiscence to minuscule buds aside the flow.  What did the poster hold; was it conveying a message usurped by the act of renewal?  A startling knock.

“The door was open, so I - “

So ceremoniously the Welcome was extended, and laid down in the form of long lasting plastiks, the clock floor-model and stationed across the hall found some offense in the matter.  This is not to say that it is nervous, in any case, while the converse may not be true either.  Then why do systems tock blue and violet?





7. @

Trentis far and wide; where the wind blew for eons sent above a draft over canyons eroded for the form of a large overset arch; where prayers are heard between the murmurs of the wind were enacted for crowds and pilgrams alike the speech of small gods visiting. 

...

Where the Galactic Bypass overarch stretched where under a radiance shone upon a gradient of yellow shadows brightly on tiles, women and children were in hoods and long dress along with men in similar linen cloths.  Carts and enclosed scooters hummed and rumbled lowly. 





8. 

were tear were falling upon a heart why shouldn't it rise slowly like a drop softer than time?  Did the sky raise itself out of the ground today or was the senses wrong enough to tell a lie again? 






9. on the approach to the white desert

Of translucent sands, a strip of beach like expanse that floated about the terrain over the east shore.  Below a brushed sky of nearly blue, dawning upon these flattened amplitudes that drifted lightly over the mild waves of hovering,  A ghost of palm trees, by a whisper of growth fortress lingered wistfully upon the very thin atmosphere.  A seam-like circumference was a slow motion ripple blossoming where the craft intended via an artisanship.  By and by an echo like thunder but lesser in slope.  Drop zones were ahead by a few rainbows' span, they were soon to be like ready chutes for ready lifts. 

In truth the sands is of a color closer to gray albeit in its obsidian quality and larger than expected crystalline structure casted over itself a glaze of dusty luminescence reflecting the multitudes of undercast by the hour... Like sails the subtle angular slopes, some incoherent slippages from overhead passages of flights, few if iterated as bye eons of timely changes, visits.

A small dust cloud tempted to fluff upwards against the dragging wind prevailing due north...
An artificial cove by the drop zone blinked, a brief intermittent signal in the mode of old lighthouses back in the original sector.  A rhythm rhyme in event of something to be.  An iterant tune for the ptelosaurus that flew low on currents from the upper cliffs.  On the breezes of forgetting comes the melodies of small birds and feathered mammals that like to accompany them. 

A steady way is seeking – the wind is light on titters and stilts.  A overflowing of milk and sugared oats trailed the spontaneity of craft?  Evergreens and cacti came to mind as relics of a fantasia embossing in quarry stone, rolling, rolling, upwards...

Rumors braced an aquarium, quite large, tunneled in a spiral out of direct star light where a channel system let through way of creatures and migrating vegetation and corals. 
...

When the bitter tea was cooling... “swarms; as I had already said, didn't you mean that – I already let me say it again, pippen stand say it again... like a new series set you haven't, did you or didn't you say, swamp like swamp...”

“The Andromeda clusters could then be quite interesting, eve's dining and probably fathoming yeh?  Says you are not ipsumming issuing there something and is everything there you hear me I writing a different bottling depot over under there...”

“You didn't never mean its a bit of a dump beside the castle over another lot or some acre in the seaslope crass you see now you don't.”

...

The yield wasn't too bad over the rings this year.





10. 

what kind of bottle is it, looked quite dry, and the crumpled message within – and to wash so far into space, to here... why, and who sent by whom by – the space is far, deep, and impassive to the question raised... let it then suspend closeby then, and this bottle of a type or another, having drifted up to shore by some hexadecimal rationale would entonate some persisting tone from a long way home?

The crumpled message inside the bottle was not promising some answer even as it spelled designs of infinitudes and even a perhaps of news from faraway.

There was a thought of continuance, a gradation of increase and or decrease, but better save some for later when a kindred spirit might drop by for down conversation.  Topically, it could raise more intriguing thoughts, like twinkles of other beautific colors.  Why not...

Interceptance; the reminder of things invisible – enactments of towers and frameworks like flights from an age far from the future; an erasure of struggles and fantasies, then as i was alone before resolve of a new horizon who was born my self? 

A game with the eaves of a green purple dawn lasting more than a few seconds, a proverbial scorn, almost, a sand of time is a dare of thought.  What is in a bottle; how did it wash up to us here, upon this shore more of a metal shore than a beach although the ripples of light overcasting the undulation of voltaic fields in early silent waking would not too...

Who is sending me a riddle, and why now?

Wire frames flickered.  Revolving lightly upon the surface of a bottle reflections of what is not there, wireframe towers and carbon filaments and corrugated plates and reflectors; easy to drift off, into dilation, to far space?

A om; a moment by, a moment turn – and back return.  Here then, to where you are, where you reclined a little, and dreamt a little of space.





11. 

“The nights here, don't they,” breakups are not easy was carried over the hardly solid state vibratory medium, stretched thin and long a slender line of via winding and aligning straight walls and under curved gutters, above and below ground, and over.  A few dirty bottles tinted fell over and about the styrofoam cooler at the end of the sofa; a bit of splatter and spill right beside, on the rugged carpet.  A silver moon light proposed to moonlight the scene, and was barely outbidded by the pyramid lights selling cola, next door, next block.

Standard fare, really, would have seemed a little too real – some flyers and brochures made out of vinyl recyclables spewing leftover holograms bragging new for a script flickered a little too dimly by the doorway where empty bags previously holding rice chips and fish crispers drifted a bit.  A jukebox was somewhere behind a screen, and was caught playing lost tunes from the old wharf, that was where she bought the novelty toy, a digital pet which skips and rumbles when you give the drawer a wiggle. 

The stupid thing is sitting in the aquarium now – even in the water it looks quite bright.  Popping from over here now, and quantum jumping over there now, and swiggled over here... It's not a fish this one, nor an octopus, nor a seahorse, or anything you'd expect; even as it isn't quite at home completely in water its looks are quite genuine and the way the refractance is under the ultraviolet lamp and beside the dendritic seaweed botanies and the two odd miniature sea creature, the actual oxygen eating ones, it still looked at home enough, if with a drink or gulp too much.

On the tube a few red blocks and now a blue and aqua green one from a way away resurfacing to the foreground; some kind of new age programming, blinked the shadow characters intermittently.  A new educational program from the Wall Mart Strawberry State, along the strain of old puppetries, with occasional voiceovers from classic maestros from forgotten era. 

“Are they more, bare -” Like a yo-yo bouncing between a thumb and a forefinger, the yo-yo one should say, that bounced here to here, until with an abruption thought to extend, to perhaps where the picture used to be, before the winter cleaning by the man-maid, an old hire he announced, and now only an empty spot remained with a bit of shadow delineation, and a fake tropical plant in front. 

A glyph pattern has now taken the forefront of the tube, and the familiar cube or squares are now morphing to its allure; like a siren song pythonically transmuting the very statistical nature of each its metrical constitution.

A whisk of the bitter tea prescribed by the witch lady from over the precinct – old vases with carefully painted harbingers of different colors, and branches and trees.  The craftmanships from the practiced, carried over oceans and skies upon signatures of master movers, inside crates of rigid build, like small rafts meant to hold over waves or currents of various make?

Bored to the depths of mind's viral tendencies wore the resilience and primal nobility of marble and quarry stone emanating edges of fuzziness whose frequencies dissipated and synthesized discrepant, bored to the fiery cores of celestial flames...





12. 

If the structure of the large crystal lattice build had started to transmute, there was no perceptible changes at hand.  As the weaving happened, through and between the twigs and branches, it was not the subject.  It was a levitated view, without something or whatever that saturated everywhere; it was not nothing, but neither was there something tangible to speak of.  A ship, or a station, perhaps a large scaled plane in a transmuting state; nevertheless, actualized a bridge of sorts, where dialogue continued in a somehow dancing? 

Like windows with fallen drapes; dusty and coated with the sting of dried lividities.  A long time perhaps, ago, but still of something everybody could see, if they'd visit.  Rags.  Not one, or two, but clumps of folds that hardened below the stale air; twists and turns that crystallized by a revolt that dripped of time.  Dust casted like rainbows?  Why do they suspend this way over air that do not move?  Flocks of dust outside of life even of insects and bees; where did we come from... There were steps of stone which were still here, barely a crack on them.  Little pebbles would populate these rocken'd steps, and easily their ascending were a visit by.

Where at first a holographic light-forms wavered flickeringly over the structure seeming lattices of designs between minutes of realizing arcs, it seemed again on the operant viewer moved and alight but from without.  As though the years have given more rather than taken, and aqueous liveliness rather in place of some raw base taken hazardly and demanded to be rended actual.  A flimsiness could some day replace the rugs on the outlying walls that curved inwards slightly, and some outwards, ever slightly; so that they would air out some, in lieu of a more apt description. 

Plenty kept swiggling and weaving about mid air with the scripts, rotating.  Hadn't some rationale been provided for their longstanding presence of halls and their stretches and stretches of sounding echo that edged on and on where passerbys occassionally paused?  Somebody brought in a parchment once in a semi transparent tubing which raised a minor controversy, but a copy had since been imaged and telegraphed below the dome, which though miniaturized like many fixtures was reset by the false perspective.  Plenty swiggled in and out of the entrance area and made some use of the spaces of via and distants...





13. 

A distant view of deserts; an even wisp of sky is a breath ever slowly descending. 

Yantze was a river running naturally through the lands for all the eons.  Offerings from the banks had raised coops and shelters and behemoths outside of the old townsites.  Where the path had been winding now hovers a mineral rail.  Its low incessant almost imperceptible rumble via its stretching found lonelier conversant with birds and bees, which continued to frequent the small patch of forest, raised between seasons of tides and what mean torrents of traffick.

Like holographs the toy cars in procession; a processive carnival of plastic red, screen blue, phantom green, and rich green, neon pink, and ultra blue.  With honks and tukes, one ride after another, streaming about and through the blinking spots of encounters, where persons wandered and looked, about themselves with one another, about the glass displays that fluctuate from behind where storekeepers looked on as sales gals adjust and fidget the mannequin's new clothings.  A kiosk that sells lollipop and cotton candy, where a couple of balloons and different colors.  Scanning, scanning – a few bleeps intermittent the silent noise of statics and foams, the deeper wells of ink swirls.  And balloons of hot airs that cruised the prebyotic skies of Jupiter, inverted membranes, from inside the water table tension cells.

There is no goldfish here, reallly; that was only a rumor of a feathery nature.  There was a flood, briefly touching upon a news, which was then deposited into a vintage bottle and let drifted away to sea, offshore.  A composite message, barely legible, yet retaining the spirit of an older, more antiquated script, will sometime reach some recipient somewhere.

Away, a way! From Terminus, we sail forth towards the sunset in the best suites. 

On the bedrock miles and miles below and above layers and layers of colored crystals, a cosmic skeleton of a boat where pebbles float in and out in a day dream in changing with the brief intermittent light that escapes the starkness of atmosphere into the deep to interweave with the spectacular of the currents. 





14. 

Nobody. 

Nobody said it was easy, that then, that wasn’t easy, and this wasn’t easy.  Hasn’t been that way they wrote it a certain way, this had not been the way it had been.  Sweat did not bleed through the thin membrane of memory’s pages, the sweat was evaporated before already?  Left behind was the child abandoned, intermittent seemings, was not there a child abandoned? 

Nobody.

Nobody was there, neither through the memory’s layers nor between the lines the prayers.  Backward a step were two steps forward in a direction; a breeze.  A wisp of wind by early evening brought some news from another enclave, elsewhere, dandelions without dreams, merely a word and two and a few more…

The gravel clicked and crackled behind the ghosts’ ephemeral steps tracing out a link here by another line was stepping outwards towards an offered path, thus forgotten, towards a story of branches and leaves so fragile and light here, and so big and beyond imagination there. 

Had there been rain, would the walls not cry?  Or seep at least a little and smell like first rain on heated pavement on a smoggy afternoon.  Why not small life grow here, upon crevasses, between lines tracing out seeming fragments on a porous, solid, wall?  What small life had found abode here too?  Children had not brought the destruction told by books by dead people.  Seeming was a bookmark, fading and soft, half melted in with leaves onto the ground that was cracking too.

A yonder; yawn.

There were books here too, hidden like treasures – beneath floor boards, over attics, beside big tree trunks with small hollows.

Earlier this day, some live forms had been by… Left a quotient of circles and circles, ellipses turning in with one another, in a prairie dance from many eons ago, singing of fevers that stained the sheets with red and purple, howls that streamed through the evenings to twilight to morning rising slivers of solar light peeking over the faraway disappearance of night… There were great moments native with slumber’s rising before waking outwards the morning dreams.  A few fibres of carbon and residue too, whisking, a little, through the air; the early freeze is only for a brief duration.

Bans weren’t so much a thing of the past as they were like soot to avoid with the sockshoes.  Sock-shoes are better suited than waders for the sailer paths that twine around, behind, and above the opa mounds on the next county.  This is a sector where complaints don’t make their ways to receipts, if for the sole reason that to get from point A to point B still takes the span of a few sets and rises, and no way to jump hyper unless the matter is so urgent as to warrant an interruption to the aura substance suspending between the twigs and trees. 

The leaves in this season have a semblance to them of lighter tones, rarely found on other sectors; they tend to almost sparkle, not like ice nor plastic, certainly, nor do they jingle, exactly, and certainly one cannot imagine leaves to sing, per se.  They take on a character that considers, a consideration that happens before winter but before fall too, and without summer, before the conversations with the wind against the wizard’s window atop a watchtower on an autumn visit before the tablets are collected from the various acres lightly demarcated with thin lines of nanosnow.  The wandering truly finds a journey too short on days like this.

Across the way there was a small marker, across the way from where the traveler was learning, and leaning.  A sip was thought of, a mind changed.  The marker was small, unmarked, like the other ones; upon close inspection, there is a color that flicker back and forth gently beneath the smooth surface.  Closer inspection reveals its reflectance index is really not playing out with the natural ambience but from something else.

The curves were bent further and obscure in their oblongness.  Oblongevity, she thought.  A ribbon traced in a bend, spanning, a movement somewhat awkward, visually, yet meaningful because of the form it was responding from.  Certainly the path could not have designed itself, even if portals had been charged with the lo-hi quotient boards, these pathways with such subtle means looked more than equation-bound.

Admiration does not do, but nobody mentioned why not since this rest stop was so conveniently poised before the path ahead, onto this overglam’d rail that spinning upwards over the woody abyss below.  Not just the leaves, no the leaves do not reflect this way as this rail or path does that spins lazy, biomorphic, designs its own way up into a throughway, changing the unknown into a meaning for these sock-shoes.

A solar wind intercepted the space above, again.  She barely would have noticed, if not for the glint that flickered over the path. 

A regular. 

The pack lighter, still holds the blanket, a half pack of syrup, and more than enough juice to go for another two runs at least.  Spare jumpers too, because habit prescribes unexpectedness for these paths.  Paths rarely find obstacles, never; all about paths, around them, behind, in front, aside, so on so on, there are little furry creatures, and generally unexpected things.  The climate, too, does not always conform with the canopy.

Wirings are loose again, on the contact unit, they gave her this one before the trip.  Nobody really used these, but it’s in accordance, there is that saying, you never.  They work well after the stars emerge, clarity tends to be higher.  They also don’t work very well unless you keep it in the open air over normal light when they absorb energy though minimally from around.  This one gives a short and concise bleep-bleep when it wants to be hidden away in the pack again.

Bleep,,

Well, no sense in dallying any further.  She tucked the unit into the pack, and lifted her heels, her sock-shoes as light as they’ve ever been.





15. 

There was a storm.  It was coming down not in one direction, but in slamming wind tunnels that curled and punched, and water and debris were in all directions.  Funnels like steam, the sand was raising a ruckuss, yearnings and platapus and erroneous speeches thrown out onto the beach the years before.  The rain kept coming down.  And the wind kept rolling on high.  Clouds from everwhere and everyhere heard the news and crashed in to rise and fall with the whims of the sole universe. 

Inside was quiet.  For all the dreams that came with the tides, inside the papers drift in midair, the dream intact, the journeys onto unending paths weave and seep towards another futuristic sega pages.

-

A robe lush robe overflowing first appeared and called the character into light.  The forest too was lush of different types of plants and flowers and overlooking canopy.  The robe's overflowing tails shone like delux scarves, somewhere between wool and cashmere or perhaps some kind of artificial flavors of a synthetical kind.  Rushing water nearby further accentuated the flowy nature of the scarvey appendages of the robe, and hid for the moment the character behind the robe, and the hat, too. 

A few bells caught the breeze early and sing song tone tune with the swift currents, intertwining one another.  About the same trees or different trees, their branches and their leaves, and bells too, a few birds are chirping away, quietly and happily with one another, and waiting on news from the ever regions, news about to be delivered from faraway. 

Ah, the lands of faraway cannot have foretold what news would behold the wondrous and the subdued, both at once?

A crinkle and a rumble, a few brooks and the messling of papers and vellum slightly yellowed from the thumbing through and elixirs spilling, potions slightly maneouvering the scripts and characters...

Was there a riddle within, the question came from the crooked winding trail, from a young page with a small lunch pack on the shoulders, wondering.

Were the heralds to bring something of value?  A sense of harmony?  There cannot be inside the questions the answers therein?  Where an old voice remains wisdom lingering, yet morning remains, seeping through the shining the gleams and everyday effort of morning dews and new leafs and twigs.  Pretty the nearly fluorescent gleam near where the hills reach towards the skies. 

Where the path starts to blend, upwards, and melded somewhat with the wizard's overflowing lush robe, a pebble is contemplating the universe.  Overhead much higher a pigeon with penguin colors was contemplating the nearest path to a sea... A cloud had the shape of a uncommon harp, digitally warped and accompanying a dragon or chimera, but only a wisp of one and suspends quite joyously if lonelily upon the sky blue sky?

A pungency also tingled about, what news what news?  A beach would be warm close-by, although the sides about the streams of scatterings of sands and stones are still cool from the yonderings the night before.  A butterfly would fly by, flapping its wings in the breeze, below the wanderings of a cloud above...






16. 

They sent an orangatuan.  Not the monkey you understand, but a real-life organic-synthetic blend hybrid, in the physical form of a cube, of no moveable parts or discernible surface.  In a cage like container, no less, which was much too big for its inhabitant, with a glassy surface to sight, and lined surface to the touch.  Immobile and expressionless by nature, and quite small, as a matter of fact, the orangatuan is of a hyper schematic whose entitihood has become unquestionable in recent decades.  They call this one Calypso, for short, although its default name was of a much longer string and originated in an alternate lineage from Germanic roots, similar to French fundamentally but of a drastically different appearance, more like oriental characters, for example. 

They sent a protected sequence complementarily to demonstrate the austerity and importantness surrounding the departure of the orangatuan Calypso.  Like how coffee with various creams, sugars and energy shots remain a requisite luxury on most spaceliners, the complement sequence was a treat.  Unlike its representation object, which was mostly sombre, the sequence was entertaining, with the usual flares and wierdness, better served with popcorn.

Outside was black, as usual.  The sequence arrived short of two squires previous.  Checking on the codes had everybody running their own personal sequences against the signature to ensure clearance.  Redundant, perhaps, but good practice still made sense.  There was a view towards the reconnaisance inside the shape of the constellation Decard.  A few waves of short magnetic resonances had the sequence rolling off to a start.  Synching imageries of deserts and white dunes, and edited between them the rotating celestial spheres, views perhaps from the various locations lightly coming into view before us. 

And the view of the distant danced, intrapolating familar Decard constellation beyond   . 

-

“so then, she said, you know... beware of... urh.. uh, she said beware hate speech from those around you.. the closest ones, you know..”

“you mind your thoughts, honestly...”

“is that really, only...?”

“I mind my thoughts already... then it is... myself, you know.  At the very least...”

“No, I wouldn't really...”

“Probably you have to, you ought to... it's only yourself...”

“I guess.  Did you see the news last night?”

“No, it's been awhile – TV, you know how it is...”






17. 

There are fruit trees in the forest. The morning dew trickles, and evaporates by thin air ere it finds its grounds.  The canopy glitter and scatter about the ground below the wisps and dance of shadowy yellow light.  Where a leaf is brittle with thoughts of glitters by autumn's harbinger gray, a brighter vibrance murmured below the hum and breezes. 

Early rise cooling before dawn, a bear yawned with.  Leaves close by did not quiver or stir, although their intents were only to hear a sharing of the hour that is before dawn.  The cave is underground but from the front looked as though it has only a thin setting beside the birches and shrubs. 

Where pebbels roll and sand dust with small insects along, reminisced with white clouds ahead blue skied extents over rolling hills, a small patch of prairie where we picnicked.  One afternoon, when heavens receded with a almost indiscernible knowing smile for the shadows would change color against the wisps hidden below small outcrops of potent trees, and logs overtaken with rich lichen moss.  I fancied a bird might drawl closely by to pause and join the foray but they refrain hidden.

After a year of dry-ness, a bubbling started again throwing into life again a spell of berries and blossoms.  Smoothened stones became reflective, rhythms of castings upon prisms which are very small indeed.

The days for friends are over, lamented a small cobweb beside the pile of match wood left behind so long ago, the last smoke now given to a dampness.  Seedlings did not take so after a while of scraps from weeds blown over from the other patches, a silence began to take hold, and hold, and froze.

Where the leaves were yellowing are now greening are they now in becoming?  The treasures in the groves by roots barely uplifted, ever seen a new season walking onto some crystal o' something or another.

Over some grits along the sanding path was some dried blood or something, were fruits crushed by whose foot prints, paw prints?  Knitting a path with threads of memory streams impressions of spirits brought by the songs of magic women who lived above the clouded cliffs, who wandered now and again through the treaded well kneaded throughways, narrow as they are through the slender trees, a regular forest.  Birds were not shy to fly overhead, but high, how high they flied...

- - -

And the humming was low, lower below the thin smell of bus fumes, something between engine and leather or air funneling through the recycling functions of the air conditioning... where lights dim and flicker before stabling.  A paper cup was slightly crumpled, where a lonely pigeon right about.






18. 

The road is long, very very long.  There wasn't a measure of distance to cover the residual traverse ahead.  No sensical term to adequately nominate the meaning of.  A formula, perhaps, wouldn't a formula do?  Shadows flickered neon from behind the leveed banks behind the insulatory resolution.  As though skipping or dancing like starfish upon the surface of a pond, or larger lakes, the rippling softness of light's undulatory gaze. 

Decades and uncounted candles later...

The stars were receding this morning for the blossoming of light's presence; as the smell from the barbeque and rocketry experiments still lingered, the patio seemed warm from the heat signatures dwelling the night before.  Too often, the frost that flickered through the bare branches and twigs forwarded the winding traverses of the canyon onto another season, swingingly, changed the coloring of the sky, but left one feeling as though belonging to a future era. 

Up by the great big cone where the antennae was, a call was raised that brought the sentience here.  A glyphica was permanently issued, and read with a distinct echo of sentiments faraway, if familiar.  As though ghosts have taken permanent abode there, with the Messanger, the great big cone was smaller in reality than in distance, which presented an illusion of sorts.  To be taken care of was a dream better relegated to the back of the memory cargo, but there the reminder would have been crystalized and all so clearly.  Sensibly, a breeze answered the whimsy and the dream.  Over the basin we ran.  We ran and ran and ran; a rainbow would rise some day.  The Messangers could look on, as though all the world was the bottom of a tea-cup - where our steps would leave trace, they would tease our impressions upon the land out from the minute breezes. 

Wandering for now, they yielded to the summery waves and had taken refuge under the silvery charcoal coves.  Parries were lifted about the outlier anchorages, creating a semi-continuous deflector and shade.  A low rhythm weaved through and about our huddling warmth.






19. 

Picket fence, and bricks.  Made of stone, the stairs climb and ascend; they linger and creep on the twists and vines and outgrowth from last years.  The picket fence had taken on some shade of gray, a shade that tells a tale of colors of different tints and hues.  Below a finicky sky soaking in urgencies of morning and pendances of deliberations, with steam from the loose leaves with boiling waters, there were my chairs, sitting and contemplating upon the cool blades of grass, under the wide and widening skies that span from dusk to dusk and dawn to dawn.

“Great morning,” says the shirt of dots and patches, “isn't it though?”

Along the rumbles of rolling grass, an echo catches itself with an awkwardness that seems to sing.  Inside the house the water was refilled to the kettle that sits now on the stove awaiting.  The pane that cracked last winter I replaced with a thicker more modern pane.  It now reflects dully, but is impenetrable, as they say, while around it the frame and wooden chipping still needs a retouching with that outdoorsy acrylic stuff. 

If the telephone would ring right now – rig, rig, riiiiiig... rig, rig, riiiiig...

Constance hadn't stopped by for some weeks; I wonder if the waiting was mutual.  Perhaps through the evaporates rising, in this way, and that, and blowing – how messages have become lost.  For several weeks now, there has not been even a phone call.  The mornings are dipped with the noddings and wheezings of the furnishings, and the floor lumber hides a secret room between the levels, perhaps. 

The absence of sound was the beginning of an orchestral incident the night before.  By the path between the hill and the slope down where the vortex was: a subtle change for the updraft lifted a blackbird, no two, their sideways trajectory lifted.  The lunar sphere was shy of a full appearance, being under a sheer layer of condensates, faraway from where the atmosphere is.  The animal kingdom was asleep; it never sleeps.  A few sand and pebbles rolled along, though the air was mostly still, a longstanding attention by gravity they had then, just then, to pay heed.  A creek was frozen; yet trickles could be heard from above.  A truck would have seemed to have rolled by then; sometime, some then, somehow.

My ears had rung.  How they rung with the force of inherence, and kept ringing, even as the coo's and kuuk's sounded themselves and the nights' totality back into the sphere of focus.  How a person can sleep when alone, even when they stay wide awake, they sleep, throughout.  Dreams and thoughts are amerged.  Parts of one dream from one night can be as though having had seeped about with other episodes on this and that night.  The birds still chirp; or were they sounds of insects whose sonic bounds are comparable with those otherly capabilities other bugs should sport?  I had to, finally, imagine – that river that, in the poem where, a river I never seen yet in mind eye, lest I fall, asleep.

Was it usual?  How do birds decide to fly together, make conversations from where they perch?  Why can't pails hold the rainwater when put upside down?  The leak was from a long time ago, but it only gets worse with the weather, sucking in all the damages it could, as though holding a vendetta written in scripts no longer decipherable, in blood then already transmuted.

A lonely heart will only hurt a solitary soul when turned,
Who cannot seek shall never meet nor only want a turn.

If the postman should, postwoman I should say, come by before the Morning Show here this morning, that would be good.  She sometimes comes in early, and sometimes after.  There is only one road out here.  On good days, I imagine the miniature service truck might meet other cars, vehicles, on its run.  One of them would probably scoop out onto the pebbled shoulder of this backroad, so the other vehicle can pass and the drivers would raise a hand or feign a nod out the window in greeting.  One imagines too the tougher days when puddles, mud ponds, and salt-inspired breaks in the road would mush and freeze or somewhere in between... and yet, whether before or after, the service truck would arrive, skidding over the neat bump before the driveway, swoop inside receiving, and plop to a stop by my mailbox.  Funny the days when no mail, the miniature truck pauses as though caught by a whimsy, for one moment only, before and on again the open road.

“Pretty soon, heh?”  To nobody in particular, but the birds heard and some turned to see.






20. 

Tones were still resonating – a'row a'row a'row.  A feeling of dampness to skin, the shirt clinging heavily and as the path crawled on.  A woods stayed tranquil with no threats near.  The boat, if you could call it that, was docked, if you could call it it.  Some rope draped lazily, too damp, and no birds were sounding in the atmosphere.

Blue would have been the sky last night, near lavendar deep blue of a light less saturated hue.  A sandwich had been left on the luncheon counter at the hotel.  Who couldn't recall food at a moment – certainly not this one.  There is no sound of deer nor elk nearby, yet an electric clairvoyance filled the air where you breathe.  Some leaves are on the tree; a breeze is low near the dirt and soil ground, not really moss riden at all. 

No tracks in sight.

No compass.

“I have a compass – 'ere,”

The mining industry – there were some early attempts here with no reports of foundings nor known publicized claims.  A few odd claims, perhaps, the villages did sound a few echoes in nods as though memory has knocked.  Another small settlement offworld was more industrious and produced a few old men who owned discs and graphs, and they too nodded.  Yet who had known something here.  Not even an odd flight creature?  A few smelly books was behind the bureau where visitors were standing.  The human, long renowned for work published in the early A D, shifted through a few memex cards casually as they stood waiting, trance like from the quick step tour before along the colonnade recessed corridor, lit from the scene – an easy gesture lifted a graph from the decks – alas, behold, a cryptic complexity of intricate structures which seemed lit from within had delighted of memories of long known cultures of robed designs.  One of the attendantas  went about the small gathering and dealt forward some pamphlets in old style linen paper.  On theme were some neat drawings and Lexmarkian printing that distracted the readers for awhile with their instillations of smartness amidst the distant yardiums.

In other words, not much in knowledge to convey so immediately as to spare a helicraft for deployment onto terra. 

A rumble should be detected by eon's ends!  A rumbling, a low tumble of airs to resonate too softly... 

Tis twilight is dimming to fresh layers you call spheres.  Vegetation did not drip low; is sprightly.  Blue gray shadows are beginning to pool into little bytes intercepting one and another.  A sleepiness of night's own airs are dripping, upwards; smaller plants are coming into sight. 

Getting up now to tread a start towards the goal.  By this next evening a guide could be available was promised.  As afar whencefrom here upon another day's find.  The color alphabet sped to light dawning a little green hue remainders from the show before; and easier to breathe too.

“They were going to say...”

“How did you know it was the future?”

“There were some trails or streams about the cafe, like puffs of smoke without the smoke, like incense or incense drifting about to the tunes and music.  I didn't really know, but they have heard some rumours out past the islands, that some people had heard.  I didn't know much then but I got busy with the coconut crews, the management was never much around.  We used to sail about those parts, where the leaves they flew perpetually as though knowing something about the winds that drift on the ocean.  The cafe was a special place.”

“So it was on the wood circle table.”

“I knew them some.  And we sat at the same old table more than once or twice.  Nobody actually knew one another all too well, but we knew enough.  Like ol' Pate who used to carry some knife around he was okay to sit around the table with the rest of us.  Some dancers girls and boys they sometimes sit with us after they danced.  The sea is there you could here it.”

“And the parrot birds, they also knew?”

“I hadn't really thought about the birds much.”

Aces of spades were cards out over acrylic plasticine wrapping over the small desk, and the breeze dryer lands between the inverted glass pane of a lace curtained window.  Some dust and gravel settling on the smallish desk, and a coke bottle with some water and half dried flower and grass peeking.  The words they fell onto the table, delicately, as though small puffs of cream from a cream puff lightly downwards in a saturated atmosphere – a fine evening, it was.  It was a nice day outside after all, neatly too bright earlier, now settling to a smooth dusty evening from strip malls and oversized wooden horses.  The plastic bags differently colored were left by the metallic paint door, a mess of dollar novelties and december givings.  Some fancy car stopped by earlier, a luster of paint and diesel dream, leaving them all in a dust pile too.  It was good to see some interest still in the oaken fortune – and why, the stories that could inspiration bring out from behind the curtains.

“Who did you sell them too, the coconuts?”

“The locksmiths, they are by every fortnight – well, not every fortnight really, but often enough.  Once every two years, no – once or twice a year or half a year, just about.  I don't mean the ships coming by, because only some folks would come by from the boats.  They dock and occasionally return to shore by the smaller boats.  The smiths are from different places, around the islands.  I knew some of them.”

“We should go out to dinner.”

It was only earlier in the evening, and a few chirps could still be heard outside.  “We could walk, or bike.  I thought you wanted to hear the story.  There is more of it to tell and Harken did discover more than them knew.”

“I do want to hear the story.  We could walk as you tell the story.”

“The surf did break early a day.  Some of us were downstairs near the spiral painting inside the foyer on the other side of the column.  The adobe brick was red and felt warm under the natural light, like a soft glow as you enter the house after a day's catch.  We had some water under the small cabinet where the whiskey was also kept in a regular flask although that had been there for ages.  I had left the check books about, on top of the small cabinet.  It came up to about here, and was painted green, an ugly paint job and was chipping a little, but I liked it.  I thought perhaps my uncle had painted it himself.  I even had some goggle on.”

A few grey birds were abounding.  One had some sky blue tipped white feathers.  They just now landed on a twig outside.  They were looking inside the room through the hazy window, or making some motion to inspect the happenings of the two figure sitting about the desk.  A black bird was there, where a black bird was standing and chirped loudly just now.

“There was some bread on top of my check books.  Did you say you want to get dinner?”

“I know a pancake place.”

“I had to dig around everywhere in the attic to find the check books.  They were probably not functional, or updated anymore even then; a matter of principle, I felt was something to do.  It took an entire day and a half.  The men were not home yet and were only sending a bird, but I wasn't sure at all.  I went to the attic and also the kitchen cabinets and went through all the trunks and some boxes, even under all the clothes.  I knew they were going to arrive, but there was no message brought in by the birds on a slip as usual.  Even the small one knew something was happening.  We didn't eat much fish, believe it or not.”

“The kids were mostly vegan these days.  My eldest live on celery chips and organic soda alone.”

“We did get the water out of the cabinet.  I knew something was happening because, because the small one knew.  We didn't leave the rug outside that day but it was already inside the door.  The boy at the cafe had given us an envelop and there was nothing in it.  He said later to one of our cargo shippers it was there, he said, he had put a hair inside so we would know it.  I was beside two other persons.  At the cabinet.  We didn't know where the envelop had gone, probably left it at the restaurant.  I had the glass in my hand, and she had the jar.”

“It -”

“It was half full.  It was more than half full.  Too bad I didn't know the other person too well.  I managed to bring the bird parrot inside the night before when it had did a thing on the floor.  I told them we should probably clean up.  They knew I wanted to make a change too.”




SECTION 3

1
Between the whispers of the leaves a silence was radiating. Some mystery transpiring between the spaces lit by the brushes of twigs and blades under the pale blue void. A deep awakening calls quietly, whispering to the passing bodies dressed in nondescript clothing. In the way was a wide concrete path upon which the footsteps lightly treaded. A thin river of silvery hue glistened and shimmered on the byway. Seemingly very far away was a kiosk selling popsicles and ice-cream of a very low grade. There was a facsimile of a windmill. Its shadow tells of its ephemerality, that it was made only of plastic, even though upon close inspection, it was in fact a curvature rendered in metal rusted over long eons of wind and sand blowing ceaselessly, carelessly, and unforgivingly.
The river was neither deep nor shallow. By its flowing form, there was nothing profound nor awesome in its perpetual change.  A scattering of goose floating upon the surface with no care nor interest, not the slightest sign of consciousness.  Three steps spanning the length of a sixteen wheeler led unassumingly down to a foyer opened like a very modest beach onto the water.  A man, hooded entirely, and shielded barely behind a few slender trunks with wispy branches and few leaves, sat with no words with his back towards the pathway.  He was hunched over, his expression apparently faceless, if told by the gesture of his posture.

There was no telling if the passerbys walking this way and the opposite way into the endless horizon were in actual motion or if they really were just transient appearances.  Nobody spoke a single word, yet in the whispers of the trees some hidden message was being realized beyond the this uncountable scattering of beings.

Some days the geese would be of both mature and younglings.  The mature ones vastly outnumber the furry little yellow younglings.  They mozy about in no accountable organization, not even scattered.  Yet, at the faintest suggestion that a force is approaching, the younglings quickly group themselves into a little tight formation, while the mature ones show no signs of awareness that anything has changed.
Away from the potent calling, loud and powerful in the emerging, continuous arch continuously forming above head, the tiny and many leaves encouraged by winds… The winds seemed senseless yet harmonious in their symphony or cacophony of sounds tracing out some non-existent form blowing something like life onto all these small un-noticeable outgrowths just months before.
When a focus in taken on some particular passerby, they seem to have an expression just like the man hooded in the white apparel.  There was no way to discern whether their individuality was a figment of my imagination, or if they were immersed in whatever it was that made the winds what trace out motion in this here.

In the pause taken amidst this slow happenstance with no discontinuity anywhere, that shows no increments of any sort, choice was lost until the unspeakable silence moves into a decisive moment, when the substance of the pathway lying the opposite to the beyond becomes possible once more.


2


Whirling in the stark sunlight like white swirls in the tan latte, five teacups accomodated.  Where was the memory hidden, was the dream left behind or brought forward. What was this man and where did he go?  There was nobody in this teacup, nobody on the white curved bench suspended in obscurity within the once porcelain what-was-it?  Yet, that it kept moving along as though upon an invisible infinite spiral, in slow motion, the porcelain soaking in the soft white light now stark now diffused.  It was in this light that the hat, too white, with a pink ribbon, started to softly appear, brought into view like that Cheshire cat but not with such droning metrics, as though one thing had to appear first before another.


Although no moment would or could be held, in no way frozen, any more than a drop could stop falling in the midst of a  storm, when nobody was paying attention, that which you always wanted nevertheless was then held.  In that far away land, that land you could quite find and yet was told of so many and many times, he thought, if only that reminder were always there.  So it was with the tea cup.  For some unknowable duration I too sat in a swirling teacup wondering why was there a seat in a teacup?  Overhead the clouds kept morphing ever so slowly.  Once, a child lying on the grass looked up and it crossed her mind that I am too a cloud.  What did the bird crossing the sky think of that.


It was not really for the attention that the cup was not only on a saucer but was rotating in an ever slowing motion like the tug of the moon on the tide from oh so far away.  


It was not possible to know at the time that when this was being conceived, in another time in another place, there was a wooded land on which was a house in which was a man who was sitting at a similar wooden table.  On this table was a similar mug and a similar plate, although the teacup on the saucer were too far away, and beside the wares was a similar newspaper of similar stock and similar ink.  Was there a similar window where similar light was streaming in at a similar hour?  Yet how different they had said.


Nobody really knew before or did they?  Who knew that men of letters would soon become men of something else that was not yet given a name.  Only it was shared somehow in that moment behind the vision or the voice had arisen, it was already shared in a consensus that dared to bear no name.  Somewhere between the whisperings of the tall yellow ochre grasses and spanning beyond and above that way upon which the tracks were laid, they heard, and spoke, and were silent.  It was too in the breaking of water in the brooks, the tributaries, the streams, before the roaring rivers between the canyon walls.  It was heard in all the land.  Only the birds bore the mark of the ancient to truly know in the memories already relegated to the bones that broke down into some and some better forgotten thing.





3


There was a hotel, half hidden, not in shadow nor in one of those cloaking devices, but it stood there for nobody really noticed.  It was as though no car ever passed, nor pedestrian ever walked, but between these two buildings it really did stand.  The steps up were somber, neither a velvet red nor a somber gray was the rough fabric texture coating the wooden steps.  To ascend with that respect one must have when arriving in the next moment of no recorded origins, the question was what was there at the top?  


Someone was searching for a pool of light.  He found it clad in a rough linen-like cloak, in the dark.  It was remembered  that the light was streaming from above, never falling yet pooled.  Was that at the top?  Or was it as the clouds were  parting and that moment held still for the indecisiveness of this moment that looked upon a ceiling yet hidden, as it were, from the bottom of the steps.


If all of a sudden upon the landing the moment had arrived, and the how of ascension of wooden steps lost, the arrival too gone in time, it couldn’t have been this old building for it still had been standing to provide lodging to the tired traveller. There was a customary window right ahead and a door that was open on this side by the window at the end of the not  too long hallway.  Some time ago, through this one window a portal was made.  The space behind it was indefinite, and what it held or could hold was not yet known.


From time to time a cry is heard, really never inside this hotel nor any not yet made spaces, but somewhere in the fields from a hawk or a raven on a good day, why don’t they know?  How can they not see?  Instead, a well was dug.  Behold, in this land that had no crack nor crevasses where it is flat and could host a house or a barn, there is plentiful water should a well be dug.  Many wells were dug before a hotel was ever built, but lost to the wind so many instances which now to nobody in particular never were.


The door into the hotel was strangely, now it seems, red and made of planks.  Improbable, unlikely, and back a few steps towards that window in the hallway upon the landing.  If it were opened, and it could be opened, there would be a breeze or there would be a sound hinting that outside was more than could be known through what we make.  Strange too it had appeared from the outside that this hallway should be much longer, and no window should stand at the terminus yet what could be there was up for speculation.  A wall, perhaps, but certainly not white-washed.  Were the doors on both side be grey, certainly they should be made of wood.


Traversal down this hall made of wood it could be imagined might be like traversal through a bright white hall where the doors were placed just as accordingly.  The matter at hand was in fact traversal along a way where on all sides or no sides were many doors.  That they were all closed and none was opened in fact is the reason why the old hotel nobody noticed was still preferable, at least on some nights or those days which were muted anyway.  It would be would it not be that traversal through a hall brightly lit of no material would be fast imbued with immense speed?  Instead it was spoken of the room of a thousand screens before which one could only hold oneself in silence.  Nobody thought that before entering the room was the decision to move beyond the landing before which was the thought to ascend.  Before which was the muted day even as a river roared underneath the boulevard behind the line of spaced and brand new lamp posts to be lit in the evening hour.


		

4


From the other approach to Trentis, this from above, in each direction below that grey or lavender purple, and at certain hours almost a perverted pink and yellow, are the dust of yesteryears in an attempt to rise became as some poor emulation of nature’s clouds.  At times they parted but no view of below would be had.  They were thick perhaps, almost immaterial from the dissipation into old Cronos, where the air used to breathe they floated upon the fossilized dreams of long eons past.  The forgotten in some phantom, such dust that could never be, rose some time before and now stayed in indefinite almost-motion, some pretense for a place they now had.


This was called smoke but it was so heavy and would not be away.  What air, why, so high up, why air?  What was above? As what was below could not be seen from above, so too what was above could not be seen from below.  There was imagining, one could have hoped, but only these armored ships of many layered steel could penetrate the impenetrable, guided by what was behind the beams of light their fronts carried.


Layers, and layers, and layers.  




5.

The torrents swirled below, the darks rushed upon opaque and unceasing motions that broke above, and hissed.  Everywhere did the depths rise and as though exhaling, softly foamed, almost imperceptibly below the equally dark skies too impenetrable. The thick air faced off with the heavy sea.  A blow by blow, thousands, ten thousands, hundred thousands, it blew, and hissed, and foamed.  Where sea and air met was light, though fuzzy and blurry, the motions coming down from above, the depths rising from below.


Between the forces below the lightning rode through upon gales that summoned the fearful waves below was the dark red and blue balloon.  Whereupon the confrontations of mighty winds and there were many what should be a whimper of a vehicle tracked and found a path, winding raggedly but surely like a B2 below the radar.  What trail did lay wasted behind, and full force ahead.


A story of a surface a steady distance below lied and hid the jagged flux, what pretense of chaos that protested and threatened: why, we should boil over, the ocean complained to the sky above.  Yet, no less, what was unseen should be ominous, the seabeast breathed heavily below the grey jagged waves portending to be the surface.  


A smooth trajectory did the captain know; no ragged path even as so could appear would be attended by the gulls and seahawks. Muted it was on the bridge is the basket, that silence of focus overwhelmed what thunder, why gale, how wave.


Above that cover by clouds such and such layers and high above the stratosphere, in the calm nothingness of the endless sky constellations blinked.  Though unnoticed for this moment, they smiled and contemplated the happenstance ahead.






6.


An hour before midnight the deserted terminal automatically shut its doors.  She walked out of the door at the side of the building, adjacent to the stalls littered with torn newspapers and crushed cans, dim in the dark of night, and day too.  The air was still as she walked out, the fluorescent lights that lined the expressionless ceiling over the hallway to the door stood while those behind dimmed.  There was no wind but the air was brisk in the fall of night.  There were no cars on the road, nor any bus left in the depot. There was no pedestrian along the pavement below the line of orange glowing street lamps, and too there was no ghost in sight. Nothing like a ghost town that night.  A real life rendering, perhaps, in retrospect.


As she winded around the depot, the scene behind the glass windows that stretched from knee to ceiling was easily forgotten for there was nothing of note.  Nondescript chairs, plastic and not padded, once futuristic and begotten from classic science visions from the space age now called.  Geometry of a irregular type is the typological plan for the rows of plastic seats that line the boundary of these strange shapes, though invisible, were imprinted onto the linoleum flooring.


Somewhere between the lampposts was an odd crow that was there earlier in the day and still yet stayed in flight as though suspended for a moment while she walked by, slightly entranced by what was not quite a premonition behind the glass windows. At the far end along the far wall, still behind the glass windows inside the terminal, are the ticket counters.  Of course at 11:03pm they stood empty.  But even in the day, when they are gazed upon, there was a sense that they carried something of an illusion; one wondered whether one walked up to the counter to purchase a ticket for a show rather than a ticket to ride to the next town. Some old velvet curtain could have a place on this and that end of the ticket booths.


At that hour it was no hour for encounter although some ten minutes later a twenty-four hour coffee shop was found.  At that hour it might as well have been some accidental wisp from slumber.






7. 


Exit was hovering in the library at the end of the hall glowing bright red, a pink slash orange glow buzzed softly in an elliptical volume about the ceiling.  The ceiling was not so low, but the eery coloring glew neon in an oval volume that fuzzed slowly and occasionally seem to blink briefly. 

The hallways though informal seemed to wind forever, twisting and turning at perpendicular junctures, small corners, medium corners, and large human scaled corners.  Only the last were brightly lit, bright white soft fluorescent lights.  These modern lighting have supplanted the candle lit lamps that flickered low on the wooden tables.  How the smell of books have changed. 

Between two floors, that is, below the concrete floor the plane of twisted wood made a ceiling in shadow, and above the wooden planked floors a concrete ceiling of the storey below, was space just about five and a half feet in allowance.  It was yesterday that the inspiration rose to bring in more up to date furnishings, perhaps a desk lamp of a more consistent, reliable, viable strength light.  

Perhaps too an electronic screen could be brought in.  A display that could stand, dark some days, lit about the boundaries on others. Suppose a message could come.  There appeared to be no antennas externally exhibited, not like the olden’ days.  And yet, one bows to wonder, was the antenna folded up inwards and inwards, til the fractalesque shapes have doubled and quadrupled, and so on multiplying, so that should this tele-vision ever be turned on, the image and sound would be as crisp as day?  Should a broadcast be had from the crew with the calypso tape, turning back to this disk or dot or suspending sphere, this lowly scholarly space should be  extended into a dimension, first of a fine and brushed electronic space ship, and then outwards onto that infinite space dotted by fires impossible to place into that coordinate space…





8. Jack upon a mtn


Where air cools upon the songs of wild quails in odd flight that swoops down and up and down and up like the white gulls and stranger pigeons, still frequenting downward currents cold and brisk and white and still.  Motion beyond inertia and vulgar mass that unsupportable congregate of material without life and animus or soul that weighs and weighs it only does.  Up here where the air is still even upon these movements that are one and still and good, one stands alone and rising become to stay in flight.  No longer suspending or held somehow static (by the pains plaguing the lonely and the odd), held captive no longer by ignorance nor stagnation of fantasy, here on top one takes flight.  In imagination is uplifted beyond the realm of the solitary, the echo never to return, for the voice one spoke was transmitted, even as it may be in a bottle, to the realm of faraway, away, and away… 

Yonder, ay, to-, ti-, and da-.  Met too many who were not willing to come up with him, their souls too heavy with matter nondescript, one could make that judgment too.  Upon this landing here are prairie grass still growing at this elevation, spreading over think soils and rock, upon this plateau where little white flowers and purple flowers grew, and all around, more peaks rising.  They rose blue-purple, softly now, softly now, though the climb be harsh, to the top where it calmly and nonthreateningly blur into the sky. 

Barely or almost a march the ascent was: at least it was an expression of will, or hope, or something more.  If words should remember what gave men their natural being that wills, no exhilaration could fulfill the destiny of the spirit.  

By noon yesterday the tins, water, food, extra layers, blanket, gear, rope, boots, jacket and hood, and the rest, had already been laid out, so carefully, on the bed made earlier, on the wooden table, on the kitchen counter.  Even as the stove lazily warmed a kettle and the room, the air blew through the window to foretell tomorrow’s weather, conditions, likelihoods, and fate.






9. 


The air was light and dry, and a seeming was.  Above but two or three cirrus clouds, wimpy and light. The rest was blue, bright, over the swath of sandy extents.  We stood there, waiting, barely breathing, not yet in contemplation but awaiting that thought, to match with the moment when we should walk forth.

		
It was as though a plane upon which we stood and it stood.  It stood high, it seemed, that glanced down for awhile, from time to time, as it held its gaze upwards, beholding, and raised already upon the lift over the sands of time.

		
It was momentous, it would be, in our own annals held privately almost secretively, so that tomorrow the memory could be withdrawn from the vaults of the manila envelop.  In the vault that was approximately the size of a large lunch box.

		
Before the notice of eagles beholding the moment we were in motion already; in moving we were already upon the ladder; when upon the ladder we were already upon the craft; when on the craft we were already lifting, lifting, lifting off.

		
This is launch.	
		
		
		


10. Fast forward towards frontier


The land was large but the camp was just so.  There were no boundaries in sight when a person mills about, taking care of business.  It is the tip, the vertex, the front or frontier, the very front terminates by convergence to a point somewhere ahead, further beyond sight somewhere the horizon looms forward always beyond grasp.


Many people were milling about, seemingly lost in task or thought, moving around searching for a stick, a brick, a board, a pane of glass.  Over there, wiring is taking place underground and further a wireless tower being put up.  A glasshouse over there, quite large, a crystal palace and a pavilion.  Ink was being laid down on ragpaper, a newspaper tomorrow should come out at the make-shift porches, on each of them.


All around beyond the camp was dark, though at the horizon there is a line of light - the Milky Way 
beyond our reach.  In the camp, quite large and borderless, an orange cast of sunlight complements 
		the perpetual LED lamps placed rhythmically along certain lines.  Over here a runway for the space 
		plane.  Momenta of particular individuals streak of woolen jackets, Ivy caps, silk shirts, linen pants, 
		leather boots, space age boots, rubber runners, and bright orange shirts.  The busi-ness buzzing 
		along from this to that, from here to there, to here from there, to this from that.  Crisscrossing of 
		bodies and minds and transmissions and business, commutation of photons and electrons lighting up 
		the premature grids, one overlaying the other from sector to sector.  Overhead the 'copter traces out 
		a irregular search and rescue path, seeking the helipad. A fire in a tin garbage can here, a candle lit dinner there.  Silverware crossing plastic cups of cola and 
		beer, swamp water turned into alcohol.  Multiple levels coalesce into a logic lattice, the matrix of 
		communication and magic, rending the place a buzzing occurrence without end.  A place without locations, an imagination without thought. Rippling over river rocks the fresh water pipeline called a river, laser captures on the mountain 
ascertaining the location of the moon.




11.


Through the hues of six o’clock and the dull breeze the brisk cold stood.  Every tree and every grass was of a tinge of grey-blue.  Overhead were the preumbra of morning, ere dawn.  The black birds were flying; they were hiding behind the cast of the matter of trees, leaves, clouds, sky, and air. By the mailbox nobody stood nor sat near the ground, but the emptiness was barely, and was held by the later blue skies.


The path was undulating but still.  A few leaves in the litter rustled and one or two blew onto the path.  Winding, and undulating, I wandered down and made tracks in the concrete.  Atoms blew left and right: energy was whistling below the frequency of sound.


My motion moved a trail through the lowly atmosphere, and blew a tiny narrow tornado upwards to the grayness and indistinctness above.  My hair stood up and pointed at the sky, willing it to turn, provoking the day to rise.


The lake was beyond the trees that were bare in winter sorrow, to turn white, soon, and later, when the sun should rise.







SECTION 4


1. 


Far distance stretched before winding through a mountain path now elongates over perspectival lines towards the disappearance in the next range.  They had followed the doctor’s path, coming from the sea golden and pink in reflectance of the early dawn, and following they now approach the next mountain, towards the desert.


One ocean of incandescence lied before, and one ocean of yellow sands to lie after, below the metal alloy plastic wheels.  Four wheels screeling silently upon the broken dust, yet the sky was above, wide, open, and far.  No design greater than that of the stars.  But even astrologists were puzzled by the hieroglyphic marks that drew out the initial plan.  Thus then thwarted by the unknowing angel, now recalled for the roads not built yesterday.


But tomorrow!  Reeling upon the news that spread by twinkling photonics transmissions, this side and that side.  For now the ride is quiet, drawing from the transformed energy drawn from the atmosphere where oxygen particles and carbon dioxide particles dance in celebration of reflectance.


When the phone rang, he picked up the handset still tied to the plastic coils connected to the low retro dash.  His seat crinkled, slightly, and the other seat creaked in response as she pulled out her module to check the weather later.  Rain, light rain, will drizzle around 3pm today.