s T R E a M # 3 8

-
The nest is in the tree where it belongs. That is not code. That is a nest. A simple, run-of-the-mill nest. A bird’s nest, to be exact. And I had meant to write something else, something – a word – that wasn’t “nest.” Only, now, I cannot recall what that word was. I started to write it, and… oh, here, the word I intended was: “next,” but, as is evident, I wrote, “nest,” instead. And I ran with it. Rather, I tried to. But I didn’t really, did I? No. Because I stopped myself and tried to explain my original choice. My typing of “nest” was an accident. My finger hit the “s” key instead of the “x” key. And there you have it. Aren’t you pleased to have the explanation? Doesn’t it make you whole? No? I didn’t think so. But, if, by chance, it did, then how lucky for you. I really ought to run with it, though. Go with the accident. The nest is not in need of repair. It is a dandy nest. It is next to the other next. (I meant to write “nest,” of course!) An eagle’s next is next to the nest I initially referred to (by accident). This initial nest was not an eagle’s nest. Rather, it is a robin’s nest. [Is? Was? It matters not. Grammar be dammed, you understand.] The robin is gone, probably munched up by the eagle “next door.” Not very neighborly of the neagle, was it? [“Neagle?” Eagle? It matters not. Champion the typo; comprehension is overrated. Are we not fascinated by the inexplicable? True, it can be taken too far. I’ll restate the question: Are we not fascinated by the mildly inexplicable?] No. But that’s our national bird for you. The nest might still have robin eggs in it. I should fetch the ladder and climb up and check. But why? What can I do about it? I can take the eggs, crack them open and scramble them up. If that is possible. I do not know what is possible anymore. The mind keeps changing its mind. I shall return to the Hotel Del Coronado. I shall spend at least two weeks there. I’ll reserve a room with a full oceanfront view. And I’ll write and I’ll roam the beach and I’ll people-watch and, maybe, I’ll have a fling or two (but one would suffice). I’ll take copious notes. My original attitude set me northward bound; but now, my attitude points me westward, back to California—where I didn’t take advantage of all the opportunities laid before me roughly thirteen years ago. The opportunities will be different this time. They will be fewer and far between. But see I’m not running with the accidental nest. I’m avoiding it. Why? What do I fear? The effort? The nest to which I refer is the one in the big tree in the northwest corner of the backyard. The tree is not there anymore. It was there when I was a child. It was a “weeping” willow tree. Somebody, possibly one of my aunts, possibly my mother, circled the tree with large, jagged, flat stones. [Flagstones?] I loved that massive “weeping” willow tree. Couldn’t tell you why. It was a beautiful tree – that’s why. It died many years ago; and before the old landscaper dug the new wells, water used to collect in that corner of the yard – after the death of the “weeping” willow. I miss that tree. Well, I miss it kinda-sorta. It was a nice tree. Have I mentioned that? Willows, “weeping” and otherwise, from what I understand, are good for soaking up water. But, overall, I understand very little. Must seek solace in that. I’d be better off. Calmer. At peace. All that. Bottom reached. 
9 July 2008

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more