I'll begin, or continue, by telling you that I'm in my late forties, that my light brown hair is thinning, though not badly, that I'm not quite six feet tall, that my teeth are perfect, and I wear a size 11 E shoe; my fingers (some have said) are abnormally long (as are my toes) (I play piano, though badly), my nose is straight, narrow and unremarkable, and my heart has a murmur that's not a major problem. My cholesterol (when last checked, though I can't remember when that was) is around 140, and my sexual organs are of normal size (meaning only that none of my partners has ever exclaimed, "Oh, my God, how impressive you are!"); my legs are thin, and I walk with a nearly unnoticeable limp. Isn't that a stunningly uninteresting portrait? It says nothing about me, only that I could be any of a thousand men you might see anywhere on the planet. But there's this: were you to see me (were you able to see me, I should say, which isn't something I'm not absolutely certain is possible), you wouldn't realize it, but I'd know you instantly, and perfectly. No, not your life history. Not who you're fucking or hope to fuck, or how many degrees you've earned, your political alignment, your birth weight, your mother's maiden name, or the workings of your inner organs. I'd know you! That's the pickle I've gotten myself into, you see. That's the spider on my tongue. Whoever you are, beyond all the facts about your life (and death, if it pertained), would be as clear to me as the color of your eyes and the odor of your breath.
You exist beyond all the stuff that clogs your life and your history. You have been floating about for eons, and although you might refer to yourself as a soul, an entity, a cosmic thing you are as unnamable and indefinable as the reason for gravity. You assume an identity; for a time, you wear a flat stomach or a graceless rear end or a face that makes others look away (or look too long): and, for a time (which is called "a life") you sell motorcycles or write greeting cards or are appointed king of this place or that, and then all of it's gone, Poof!-- down to the last fleeting memory, and you continue, unnamable, indefinable, neither a soul, nor an entity, nor a cosmic thing.
You!
~ * ~
June 11, 1:30 AM
He told me:
"I was walking with the woman I loved and it was my last day on earth. I didn't know it was my last day, nor did the woman I loved, whose name is Karen. We had shared a tasty lunch at a place called "Sid's" (she ordered a bowl of clam chowder and I ordered a tuna rollup) and, as we walked, we talked about the lunch, about the morning that had preceded it, and the evening that had preceded the morning. God, we were happy together. We were inseparable and that's how we liked it. What a way to live!
"Here's the thing, Abner: We were walking on railroad tracks. That's almost always stupid, but we knew the schedules of the trains that used those tracks and we assumed we were okay. Turns out, our assumption was correct. There were no trains. Not that morning.
"Walking railroad tracks is a little like walking on thin ice: it's such great, childish fun to balance on the rails or skip from one tie to another that's two or three ties away, or to put an ear to the rail and proclaim that you can hear a train far, far in the distance: "It's the rail," you say in hushed tones, as if sharing some forbidden secret."It conducts the rumbling of the wheels like a telephone wire. You can hear a train from miles away." But you're aware, with every passing second, that a huge, powerful, and nearly unstoppable Goliath uses those rails and that, if it caught up with you, you'd be reduced to hamburger. There's a little bit of a thrill in that, of course. But, still, as I said, it's like walking on thin ice.
"That grim possibility turned us on big time—Karen and me. So we decided to have at it right there, on the tracks. There was, as well, the always-irresistible possibility that we'd get caught (though no one else
You exist beyond all the stuff that clogs your life and your history. You have been floating about for eons, and although you might refer to yourself as a soul, an entity, a cosmic thing you are as unnamable and indefinable as the reason for gravity. You assume an identity; for a time, you wear a flat stomach or a graceless rear end or a face that makes others look away (or look too long): and, for a time (which is called "a life") you sell motorcycles or write greeting cards or are appointed king of this place or that, and then all of it's gone, Poof!-- down to the last fleeting memory, and you continue, unnamable, indefinable, neither a soul, nor an entity, nor a cosmic thing.
You!
~ * ~
June 11, 1:30 AM
He told me:
"I was walking with the woman I loved and it was my last day on earth. I didn't know it was my last day, nor did the woman I loved, whose name is Karen. We had shared a tasty lunch at a place called "Sid's" (she ordered a bowl of clam chowder and I ordered a tuna rollup) and, as we walked, we talked about the lunch, about the morning that had preceded it, and the evening that had preceded the morning. God, we were happy together. We were inseparable and that's how we liked it. What a way to live!
"Here's the thing, Abner: We were walking on railroad tracks. That's almost always stupid, but we knew the schedules of the trains that used those tracks and we assumed we were okay. Turns out, our assumption was correct. There were no trains. Not that morning.
"Walking railroad tracks is a little like walking on thin ice: it's such great, childish fun to balance on the rails or skip from one tie to another that's two or three ties away, or to put an ear to the rail and proclaim that you can hear a train far, far in the distance: "It's the rail," you say in hushed tones, as if sharing some forbidden secret."It conducts the rumbling of the wheels like a telephone wire. You can hear a train from miles away." But you're aware, with every passing second, that a huge, powerful, and nearly unstoppable Goliath uses those rails and that, if it caught up with you, you'd be reduced to hamburger. There's a little bit of a thrill in that, of course. But, still, as I said, it's like walking on thin ice.
"That grim possibility turned us on big time—Karen and me. So we decided to have at it right there, on the tracks. There was, as well, the always-irresistible possibility that we'd get caught (though no one else
Similar Books
