I don’t know where the days disappeared to, what place at the back of time, what dimension. Were they even present in my present? They just went somewhere as if there was some universal zoomba grinding around all of my surfaces of recognition picking up the dirty particularization specks of time or large fallen fetuses of leaves curled tight which are constantly peeling off of my bare feet as I enter the house. The leaves that were once attached distinctions now wind-blown disconnections. They have come down, down to the ground. Nine days of heat and entropy. Nine days of explosive change. Nine days of amnesia.
In this now moment, I sit on the deck and speculate about a bird that just flew low down over me and squawk chirped. The bird-shape individualized and milliseconds behind it the shadow trailing. I saw them and I thought, “Is it always like this?”
Is there the event, the action, the sense of being real and at the same time a trail of who we are?
The living roundness of a living entity appears and too soon for the eye-mind to register, the shadow appears but not like the bird. It is shifted by change in the precise moment of being cast, created. The intensity and direction of the phantom of the bird which could be perceived in a second to be ‘ this one thing’ is more of less saturated darkness. The sun’s direction, the interference of wind in leaves, the stately sailing ships of clouds, the cast shadows of other objects defying the sun, the star dark of the deck umbrella all interpret the flat black and white appearance of the bird itself as it moves low down so only my left eye registers this passage of bird riding on the wind dragging its shadow like a second home.
I spun out, was pinwheeled by the events last Monday. Saturday and Sunday were given over to pacing and muttering the monologue I have tried to memorize previously. Why is it so difficult to commit other’s words to memory for me? I add to the list while I am abusing myself: You can’t do math, understand flat pack instructions for assemblage, learn new technology without agony. The suffering is part of the imprisonment of a slow mind.
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Is it because I find so many things in my life easy? I can grasp new ideas about cultural, emotional, scientific or physiological discoveries as quickly as a toad whips out its astonishing length of tongue and zip it into my self. It becomes disgested. It becomes my new view of the world with unbelievable speed. I can physically feel it settle into my being. Yes! I see it. I swallow it and digest it. It is now part of me.
As I prepare the monologue for an audition, I am now more like a baby strapped into a high chair than like a lightning quick toad. The bib tied onto me, no matter how expansive, cannot protect me. The spoon of mashed up something which looks predigested moves toward my mouth and my lips are clamshell locked. The concept, the system, the monologue is forced into my face by sheer persistence and it is simply spewed back. I don’t absorb this new information. I wear the mess of it upon my person. The failure is like mashed peas slowly creeping down my front, my face, my arms and some ends plastered in my hair.
I have gone from the Fast Train to an old truck on a pockmarked road. I hit an area of cognition that has lain dormant for years or maybe for this entire lifetime. The level of contrast between instantaneous absorption of far-reaching concepts and the infantile attempts to close the thumb and index finger around an item of information is dumbfounding, It snaps my head back every time.
A bird flies low and both it and its shadow exist but in different worlds. Nothing is simple. There is no one thing. Ever.
I am shifting. Time is shifting. The world is rebooting itself. It is a time to be curious, to simply watch and ask questions. We ask, “What is true?” And we wait.