demoralized their Spanish conquerors, but at same time north of there near the port of Valdivia helping rebuild after an earthquake: and the woman? she’s a member of far left MIR (M for Movement) but soon to flip her coign to equally anti-liberal rightist revolutionary hive; nor is this New York maverick weather-discoverer’s coastline-atmospheric-pressure correlation any suspense-loaded Doom ding-a-ling in all probability, certainly not mystery’d like family closet within closet complete with (remember the Edison light bulb that goes on and off with the) door, so let’s make it last and leave the madness, folly, deaths, and their relevant skeletons back in there—for this isobar-tailed atmosphere freak in a railroad flat in New York’s legendary Greenwich Village is coming up with science that resonates. And while you don’t grasp all he’s saying, if he has found a New Weather of enclosed voids that like "strangers" do not draw outside pressures inward, the old guy’s right to call it "weather-possibly-without-a-cause" and at the same time relate it to "outlandish parallel phenomena" he describes as infinitesimal breaks in fanatic coastline indentations directly beneath the weather in question—breaks that are not supposed to be there—"where" both weather and coastline turn out to be expressible in these (he calls ‘em) "erratic shape equashuns"—"regular monsters, ‘fya look close, like each surprised by the other, sky, land, sky."
Oh, some middle room of a Greenwich Village "railroad" and someplace along the hall you passed the room with that babbling lady voice—a mother as old as she sounds far from children, who her hermit-companion says tells him to "go tell it—tell your message." The weather diagrams polygonally strengthened here and there by the appearance of the supermarket bag’s bottom look like coastlines, but also vertical layeroids rising one upon another: the rock of history, not the history you don’t believe in but some history of rocks you do.
O.K., this meteorological speculation plus this broken and rebroken face hosting you is another beginning less necessary than equal, more equal than prior—work of an out-of-work savant, unfrocked more than unemployed, who beams his suspicion through you as if you, James Mayn, have sensationalized him, made him a household word. He didn’t know your name when you announced it, did he? He of course knows all these other things you don’t, the fact and math—even the grandeur of New Jersey—O.K., but not who you are, except your job.
His face is changing on you again, fabulous geezer—O.K. Cut . . .cut, please.
For in still another beginning, a man and a woman—had once been married—but they didn’t know each other necessarily—because it had not been to each other they’d been married. Which is an O.K. opening for a friendship. Or Open Marriage (OM), as we once said in sanction of some liberty to fuck our freedom. But they’ve not really met yet, and on this new beginning we now leave them, you see, it takes so long for people to meet. Others have to meet first.
No order, that; but you’re in Florida, not all these other places: like Choor, the homeland of Margaret’s Princess; a railroad flat in New York; a metal plate to turn pioneers to a transmissible frequency; marriage OMing into friendship; these other other situations. (There are no situations, there’s only people. You missed your chance to tell the Hermit-Meteorologist about the visits you would swear you paid to a future where pairs of people get transmitted from Earth elsewhere only to arrive as one person. A technological economy, literally breathtaking.) You have just come in out of Florida where the night will smell of unused daylight and, come to think of it, of used daylight, too. Which might just be the Fountain of Youth Vaca de Leon. You have happened into a roadhouse in Cocoa near the Space Center, and here is where you are. Give the order. Is that an
Oh, some middle room of a Greenwich Village "railroad" and someplace along the hall you passed the room with that babbling lady voice—a mother as old as she sounds far from children, who her hermit-companion says tells him to "go tell it—tell your message." The weather diagrams polygonally strengthened here and there by the appearance of the supermarket bag’s bottom look like coastlines, but also vertical layeroids rising one upon another: the rock of history, not the history you don’t believe in but some history of rocks you do.
O.K., this meteorological speculation plus this broken and rebroken face hosting you is another beginning less necessary than equal, more equal than prior—work of an out-of-work savant, unfrocked more than unemployed, who beams his suspicion through you as if you, James Mayn, have sensationalized him, made him a household word. He didn’t know your name when you announced it, did he? He of course knows all these other things you don’t, the fact and math—even the grandeur of New Jersey—O.K., but not who you are, except your job.
His face is changing on you again, fabulous geezer—O.K. Cut . . .cut, please.
For in still another beginning, a man and a woman—had once been married—but they didn’t know each other necessarily—because it had not been to each other they’d been married. Which is an O.K. opening for a friendship. Or Open Marriage (OM), as we once said in sanction of some liberty to fuck our freedom. But they’ve not really met yet, and on this new beginning we now leave them, you see, it takes so long for people to meet. Others have to meet first.
No order, that; but you’re in Florida, not all these other places: like Choor, the homeland of Margaret’s Princess; a railroad flat in New York; a metal plate to turn pioneers to a transmissible frequency; marriage OMing into friendship; these other other situations. (There are no situations, there’s only people. You missed your chance to tell the Hermit-Meteorologist about the visits you would swear you paid to a future where pairs of people get transmitted from Earth elsewhere only to arrive as one person. A technological economy, literally breathtaking.) You have just come in out of Florida where the night will smell of unused daylight and, come to think of it, of used daylight, too. Which might just be the Fountain of Youth Vaca de Leon. You have happened into a roadhouse in Cocoa near the Space Center, and here is where you are. Give the order. Is that an
Similar Books
