Let me tell you about strands of legacies.
There’s a fairy tale in my field of vision blocking the fatigue of passing days and in IT there are some castles (depending on the day), but more often than not it’s somber wood buildings sort of resort-town-like with the aging shingles and that feeling in the air of getting away.
I think we could all use a bit of restoration.
I’m updating my head with charisma and visions of new me(s). Check back later.
At a café on Sunset, in the heart of Hollywood, a group discusses the “fires in the West” and “I’ve got a tickle in my throat.” Luckily they’ve found family in the most unlikely places…
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here conducting experiments and a study of putting together examples: see How The Other Half Lives? It was bad, very bad… And Blackwell’s could be an analogy.
I’m guilty of the grease on my hands and wishing for more and I’m guilty of letting in compliments about age [although it complements some other things, which I’d rather not let in again], but also calls to mind Yay yay for Christmas at Grandma’s house and the little tea sets and trees and ornaments forgotten about lost in time under her bed “She’s not the type to need them.”
Downstairs the tv’s playing old-timey shows and the realm of possibility can be said to be spinning.
They’re all together, finally, and the night is nice. Here friends are family.. but then the phone calls strike it down and spread the distance because the friends, some of them have feelers and are using them for comparative advantage analyses in unfortunate ways one friend is thinking how nice and another is thinking why hasn’t Adrian called back and another is somewhere else and another has at least excused herself outside for a call but oh well, advice given is attempts at getting it it’s working theories out and stripping the board-game collection down to Scrabble, Sorry, and Chess.
And I’m guilty of living a layered day and of missing a love and several others and I’m guilty of seriousness in honesty and in getting to the questions of the shaping of a poor child and I’m guilty of restraining myself sometimes in public because, unfortunately, the shingles aren’t spilling from the roofs today, but with a shirt like this I’m capable of hiding and in a place like this I’m more at ease because wood has a nice scent [that counts] and with all the blushes of the speeches being made I’ll chip in by being a witness and bring a package from my side and then we carry the streamers to celebrate the openings and we’re there for successes and for making the pictures worth hanging on walls in auntie’s deserted frames on ambitious days of catching up.
“Sesenta y uno” and louder “seseNTA y UNO.”
“O, that’s us.”
My “horse” trigger is comprised of a few components: mom, the memory of the weekend of seeing the Science of Sleep, not much to do with westerns.
Back on Sunset, “What time is it?” --- “We should get back then.” --- “Ok, we’ll get back soon. Ok, so that angle.. I want to get the window in the shot.” -- “And maybe we should catch the eyes, too.”
The Waste I found in a cup is a place
Of Land where we can read intent
And consider the illusion
Of structure [is a thought had and then, in stacks of shelves in poor lighting in metal that smells like metal and wood that smells old and rows of books that, collectively, smell like contained ghosts, a tired one begins to compose a thesis].
