The cars below do not feel the apparent-wind like us walk-ons do.
A pair passes by me. I hear: “How did those stickers get put on there?”
Orcas, while rarely seen, do swim here in the Sound.
A family passes by me.
“How did those stickers get put on there?” I hear again.
{~}
On the bench to my right, a fellow in a cowboy hat is photographed by a slight and pixie-like gal.
She has a camera. A proper, right aperature. She does not repurpose her cell phone for the task. Perhaps it speaks to the value she places upon her subject and the tools required to properly achieve her artistic desired ends.
On the other side of the water is a Townsend of a port. It is filled with salty sea dogs of the best kind. One of the last bastions in the world of expertise and experience re: wooden sailboats.
It was built in a decidedly Victorian style during the late 1800’s. Elaborate stone buildings that would seem more at home in the UK.
It maintains four independent bookstores, all on the main [sic. high] street.
Always a positive sign. Yet, one that I seldom see.
The song of a pied piper.
The voice of reluctant troubadour.
An outburst from a seagull sounded like a car alarm.
Investments were made here with the intent to create a massive, international shipping port. This place was supposed to be what Seattle became, but the railroads did not lay track here as anticipated. They routed through Seattle.
A hazy cover of clouds lingers. There are immense mountains so close by, yet abiding unseen.
I pass two places that I recall having seen in dreams. Deja v/u/iew.
And, it smells like the Gulf of Mexico does. Destin, AL, just next to the Florida’s panhandle.
Salt. Seaweed. It reeks of things always being wet and never drying out.
It is a town of artisans, artifacts, and craftsmen. As it was explained to me: It is a sailor’s paradise because there are only 24 days of “good” sailing weather here.
I consider that type of sailor. Yup, they are the same sea dogs that still build their vessel from wood and not fiberglass.
There are rigger shops every other block. Schooners, sloops, cutters, ketches: the number of sails and the number of masts varies, but they all require a great deal of properly positioned and tightened rope. It becomes a specialty, like navigational skill.
It sings of waves falling down. It hints at waters ceaselessly lapping rocky shores like relentless thoughts and worries carving canyons in the contents of your confidence.
Seagull shit stained rocks and buildings made of stone. Barnacle blooms come into view on the hulls and the buoys during this time of low tide.
I feel the demands of a restless mind clicking out thought and notion like an antique stock ticker. I cipher telegrams regarding the health of your economy.
Waveform and flows rising and ebbing. Coming like crimson tides in the waters of words flooding my mind’s. Aye.
A hum escapes and vibrates from my throat. A quirk. A noise I make unconsciously when roaming in my mind.
Have you ever surprised yourself by hearing your own voice?
I speak mostly through unspoken scrawls. My loudest voice comes from silence when speech is expected. Fishermen hooking attention.
The vocal manifestation of the underlying punctuation is realized through the intervals.
Rests between notes.
How many beats per minute in the measures of the sentences comprising your composition? Moving as do canvas and a pallete knife conjure acrylics into patterns.
All boats must be houseboats when afloat. They are the sustainable sanctums stopping you from dropping into the briney depths.
While it may keep you from taking the plunge immediately, it does grant you access to the deeper and deeper waters, where both stillness and churning are ever present.
Path-carving the sloshing surface.
There are seagulls cackling out “ha-ha-ha” from all around. It sounds much like the blahyadablah of the “hi. how are ya’s,” or like all adults to Charlie Brown.
There are no speed boats here.
No yachts.
Fast and flashy find no quarter.
⊙
How am I?
The shopkeep asks.
Good question.
I know that I am, but how it is that I am, I do not know.
Do you know how you are?
I make. I do, that much I also know to be true.
I smile and say “Oh you know, I’m covering the spread.”
I stop by the independent record shop.
They sell vinyl with a smattering of cassette tapes and other obsolete formats.
They do not sell CD’s. Great curation.
I got the cassettes below for four dollars U.S.
After asking the owner what the price is, I am informed the MD is a mix made years ago by an employee, to be played in the shop. It was given to me for free. The shopkeeper was highly amused at my interest in it.
I mention that seeing three albums by Mott the Hoople made my day.
The shop owner says: started my day with them.
He reaches under the counter and produces the album sleeve for The Hoople.
A sea of faces in hair.
Evidenced.
A child eyeballs me on the ferry ride home. Sliding closer and closer to me.
I say: I’m Casey.
S/he says: I didn’t ask you.
I say: I just thought I’d tell you.
Macy then tells me many things very quickly.
S/he worries deeply about the dangers of sharks when s/he takes the ferry, for instance.
S/he stops speaking briefly and stares at me and says: I think my eyelashes are like yours. We have the same eyelashes.
If you comment: it’s not exactly rocket science, you sound like you think you are a rocket scientist.
⊙
The silver couple arrives. She forgets my name but gives me a new one each day. Curly Sue. Dimples.
Today, I am Goldilocks.
She asks the bartender my name when she thinks I cannot hear. She suggests I read the poem Casey at the Bat. Hum, huh.
The village beach preservation busy body society has two tables held for them. One for the men and one for the women. Twelve seats total. Only three women come. They talk the politics of healthcare and about the addicts in their lives.
Our speakers play almost decent, easy listening blues. If you can imagine such a thing. Almost-Stevie Ray Vaughan comes on.
Nearly-Suite: Judy Blue Eyes plays.
We are slow enough that I actually noticemusic is playing.
And, time moves slowly now.
The reservation for six at noon became 4 at fifteen ’til
.All named Pat.
“You are pulling my leg, right?”
“No! It’s Pat’s Day. Okay, now I am kidding you about that. We are all named Pat.”
He and the other Pat (only two have arrived) laugh uproariously.
I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.
I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.
_____________________________________________
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” say the lesser apes.
“You’ll see it when you believe it,” you said.
Cogito, ergo sum.
What René Descartes is remembered as saying.
Je pense, donc je suis.
How Descartes first wrote it.
I think therefore I am.
(tautological?)
“Whatever I have up until now accepted as most true I have acquired either from the senses or through the senses.” (7:18 Principles)
But Descartes feared a deceptive God or an evil eternal deceiver.
Could he trust the apprehensions of his physical senses?
He could not disprove that his sensations were not the result of deception; so he dove into doubt. How is sensation different from perception?
“We have a true or genuine perception of something if, when we consider it, we cannot doubt it…In the face of genuine clear and distinct perception, our affirmation of it is so firm that it cannot be shaken, even by a concerted effort to call those observed things into doubt. (7:145 Meditations)
Descartes tried to free us from “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He tried to disavow the authority and immediacy of knowing the world through sense and sensations. He did not believe that his five senses could apprehend truth in a way that overcame his doubt.
He found doubt and did not believe.
His belief was not dependent on sensual stimulation.
I’ll see it when I believe it.
I think therefore I am.
Perceptions that I cannot find a scrap of a reason to doubt, may be genuine.
So, we doubt the hell out of everything; and, if we exhaust every doubt of which we may conceive, we firm up our grasp of reality. Through dint of doubt, all doubt is removed. This is intellect.
“I think.” He couldn’t find a doubt about it, so he allowed his capacity for thought and doubt to validate his existence- that he “is.”
His sensations could be virtual reality, so he doubted what he saw.
When he had no doubt that he “thought”, he then believed he truly “was.”
—————————————————-
Empiricism resists and refuses the subjective realm, and is founded on a principle of obtaining information via senses and standardized measurements.
Science, empiricism, and Western culture say, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
I got a (dumb) cell phone in 2002.
My family got dial up internet in our home around 1998.
Before the mid-1990’s, we could not be in two places at once (physical, say, a restaurant, and cyberspace).
The advent of Facebook, Instagram, selfies, social media and internet culture creates a condition for, “I’m seen therefore I am.” I validate myself and reality by reproducing images of myself digitally which I post to get views online. I act the role of myself in a construction that I calculate. I show what I want when I want to in the hopes others will come to know me as I have shown myself to be.
My sister’s generation operates on “I’m seen therefore I am.”
Little digitally savvy savages.
Groups eating together and everyone has a screen. Silicon is always in hand. Take it away and they sweat.
The viewpoint of this age group: I am capable of being observed by others, this validates that I “am.”
The desire to be seen, get friended, followed, liked, hits is the want of confirming and calculable feedback that digital you has been observed and accepted by others. The cyber persona may be chosen moment to moment, so to speak. Day to day personas are less so chosen.
They’ll believe it when they see it.
Yeah, we’ll cure cancer,
And pigs can fly,
God exists,
Well, that is, I’ll believe it when I see it’s already been done.
The more individuals who say likewise, then the less individuals we have working to solve these problems. Presumably, the people waiting to see it will not be trying to manifest it. Why would they?
To them it is impossible until somebody else says, “I’m going to believe it is a possibility to cure cancer, and then I will find out if I can realize that possibility, perceive it.”
There is a lovely lack of cynicism in “I’ll see when I believe it.” There is a proper dash of humility regarding our own self-awareness.
————————————————————–
“I’ll believe when I see.”
This, however, indicates an inherent incredulity and it absolves the self of accountability.
That which cannot be seen or sensed stands on unbelievable ground.
“I’m seen therefore I am.” I see myself and receive systematic, calculable feedback that others have seen me. This validates that I am. I can show it you, point at it.
Alternatively, “I think so I am” puts the onus of doubt back on any given individual. She talks of what can or cannot be seen/perceived at this time. She does not have to state a belief position. This frees the mind in the sense that here belief follows one’s own perceptions, and, perceptions may be addressed through the process of doubt. I do not choose my beliefs as much as I become aware of them. I do not choose to believe based on what I have or have not perceived.
My beliefs are revealed to me by the things I perceive and then I am unable to doubt them. What I see allows me to come to know my beliefs and tweak them. My belief in the possibility of things does not necessitate their appearance.
I’ll see less things on earth than things I will see in this lifetime. Shall I really constrain myself to such a small set of experiential data?
I’ll see it when I believe it : I think therefore I am.
I’ll believe when I see it : I’m seen therefore I am.
Lighting a cigar, he and his bulldog walk away and across the street to
my side of the road.
They precede me by about six feet as we walk.
I inhale deeply the spirals of smoke that follow him.
I feel less sheepish about the plumes of vapor I emit.
He stops to let me pass.
“Don’t want you breathing my fumes.”
“I was enjoying it.”
I was enjoying it, too.
“Showbiz Kids” comes through my cans.
Steely Dan’s Countdown to Ecstasy.
Five minutes later, I arrive at the cozy, little bistro located on Main Street. Two blocks from the water. I see the beach town’s Monday morning is already in full swing. Live and bumping with mostly silverhairs, at this hour.
The exception being a thirty-something couple that I wager is still out from last night.
They drink a lot of water.
(No one likes ice in their water here.)
I hum my hellos to the front of house crew.
I get mumbles back. It is early.
I announce my hellos to the back of house who are singing a song in Spanish that I have never heard. They wave enthusiastically. They have been here three hours longer than front of house.
Their coffee already kicked in.
⊙
11:05 a.m.
and, the sun finally asserts itself, breaking free from behind clouds.
This thrills and disappoints.
I am already sweating. The A/C unit has not worked since I started.
He heard him directly asked twice, separately, and all he would give up is:
I work here.
He returns nightly.
He emerges from the back of house with a
fresh bus rag. He flaps it,
like a matador,
before folding it into a small square.
He does not even give up
a smile.
He magically produces a broom and dust pan to
sweep the carpet.
They don’t make ’em like that anymore?
Hardest working man in show business.
<>
The smell of cologne breaks through, suddenly.
I breathe it in deep. Try to see the source.
That was a fun song: the singer says, tuning his guitar.
He and the fellow on keys banter between songs. Long enough to be ready for the next song. Not too long.
The bass and drums do not laugh along or smile.
The funky bassist.
There is a reason he is front and center.
He has no mic. He does not solo.
Nothing is the only part he overplayed.
He is perfectly on point. Tight.
Anchoring.
A self-indulgent guitar solo becomes necessary at his command.
The guitarist announces the set break.
We now pause for this brief station identification: I think.
Guitar and keys wander out the back door
to the smoker haven.
Bass bums around with the crowd.
The perfectly understated drummer (rarest of the rare) escapes my awareness.
I look up at the screen above me and am informed carpet is being liquidated.
I stop looking at the screen.
The bassist is the first to return to his position.
Standing in his spot. Waiting.
The drummer appears moments later. Seated at his station.
Tick, tick.
The bassist sits down on an amp and starts playing along with the song on the jukebox.
/gotta have that funk/
You got it: I think.
He plucks a quick harmonic, wrapping up, as the guitar and keys return to the stage.
Stands back up, he takes his place between the two.
Guitar and the fellow on keys banter. Long enough to be ready for the next song. A bit closer to too long this time.
Tuning strings, the singer says: all right. We are gonna play the same set for you all over again…you guys look like you’re having a good enough time that you won’t even notice.
Hell, half of ’em probably don’t realize that you are a cover band: I think.
Deep cuts selected.
Covers of covers.
An undercover, cover band.
<>
Clearing empties and wiping away the sticky of slightly, sloshed beer spills,
R. stops by my table.
He calls me by first and last name.
When did I tell you that information, sly, observant one?
(Kindly let me know if my math does not tally below. I tried to check and recheck it, but…)
<◇>
Q: When was 120 minutes ago from now?
A: It was two hours ago.
<◇>
When was one hundred and sixty four billion (164,000,000,000) minutes ago?
Hum, huh?
~
My illiteracy with numbers occurs at a certain threshold.
Numerical literacy*? Not my strong suit. So, I play with numbers, with what I can imagine.
For example, I can imagine a triangle, a square, a pentagram, a hexagon, a septagon, an octagon. But, I cannot imagine, or see in my mind’s eye what a 25 sided polygon would look like. I would have to try to draw it.
There is a 10,000 sided polygon, called a myriagon, according to geometry.
I will take their word for it because I cannot imagine being able to imagine what that would actually like.
~
I am not monied. The difference between one million dollars and one billion dollars? Well, sure, ‘orders of magnitude’, but I only understand that in the abstracted sense. The practical difference between such huge numbers is not immediately obvious to me. But, the news, scientific research, and governments, regularly inundate us with such large numbers.
~
Do a thought experiment with me? I wanna know:
Q1. How far could the millions of dollars, comprising a billion dollars, go?
Q2. If I had one hundred and sixty four billion dollars (as I hear someone in America truly does) and I gave away one million dollars per day, how many days before I am broke? Let’s pretend I keep my $164,000,000,000.00 in cash in a safe. That means my money is not making more money via interest, returns, dividends.
If I have one billion dollars in cash, let’s imagine it’s kept in one million dollar bills. I would have one thousand of these million dollar bills.
I could give one of the $1,000,000 bills everyday for 1,000 days before running out of money.
If there are 365 days a year, 1,000 days is about 2.75 years.
The difference between a million and a billion, practically speaking?
A1. You can give away $1,000,000.00 everyday for almost three years before exhausting $1,000,000,000.00
So, how much more than 1 billion dollars is 164 billion dollars, practically speaking?
Well, if it takes 1,000 days, of giving away 1 million dollars each day, to get rid of a billion dollars;
It would take 164 times longer to give away $164,000,000,000.00 than it would take to give away $1,000,000,000.00
1,000 x 164 = 164,000 days
164,000 days = 449 years and a few months.
If I had $164,000,000,000 ($164 billion), I could give away $1,000,000 ($1 million) everyday for 449 years.?
Fuck.
Now that I see it this way it only raises more, honest questions from an ignorant me.
How much money do people need?
And why? To what end and what do they intend?
______________
*My own numerical illiteracy was introduced to me by a slim, charming book called Innumeracy by John Allen Paulos which I found tucked away in the statistician’s, my father, bookcase.
asleep too early only to awaken at three a.m., then, five thirty a.m.
Dreaming in lines of prose
For the first time in a while.
/a kitchen hood fan/
I shoot awake and word-play potentialities for the phrase.
Three contexts I conjure before kicking the endeavor to
Fall
asleep again.
N plays ball with the deceased Jessie-pup.
A Border Collie with no one to herd but a slobber-covered tennis ball.
“She doesn’t know when to quit. She gives herself heat stroke. Don’t let her eyes get too red. She needs a summer shave. I did not know that she was still running.”
A nod acknowledges.
Then I remember, the gal knows how to throw the ball with her own mouth.
Huh.
A sharp knocking kicks me conscious.
Hello?
Just hammers from next door’s reconstruction.
Good morning.
Coffee. Chug.
Walk the block.
My body awoke, but the coffee still ain’t caught what passes for my mind up.
WrittenCasey 