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.
writing to you as A’ licentious Alice, a chalice, from AL by way of LA origin-ally, with houndstooth donned:
It is the sense of loving the moment. It is remembering the sensation of meta/physical love and then remembering the sensation of how it feels to lose it. That ache. That sense of how many times will they wreck me?. How many times will I play the Fool?
Again and again.
Why lose the Fool of yourself? If I killed the Fool inside to be hip, where did the real me go? With whom do you share your inner fool? Can guarding it be anything authentic?
In this mp3 and streaming world, a mix CD burned,
a cassette tapemade,
breaks my heart right open. Is that why we have one?
This is not sadness; it is a necessary devouring of self.