Whipping Post

Allman Brothers. The way I feel at the end of the week, wasted, all in. On my feet, I think, the entire week. Didn't get errands done on Friday, so had to go to town today, the three L's, library, liquor store, laundromat, then check in with D at the museum, talk about building scenery for "Wind In The Willows". Stop at the grocery, cans of tuna, olives cheese, too hot to cook; gas at the Quick Stop and a pack of Bugler Papers. Set for a couple of days. Try to get outside before the sun and cut some weeds. A flight of grackles out the back door of the museum, as I was leaving, in the intense light they were iridescent, colors rippling across the smooth glossy feathers. On the way home I consider the nature of black. I remember two long conversations about black, one with Harvey about fugue states, and the other in the first print shop, about how much scarlet we might have to add to pure black to get just a hint. Assuming a pure black. The closest I've seen, and it may have been pure, was on those Secret Service Suburbans when Edwards was here, I lose a few points, but it's usually tented. Finally, the farmer's market. Varietal selections, nothing connects you more than failure, with the things that can go wrong. Usually several things, at the same time, we duck, the shattered glass, as we dive beneath the desk. My memory fails me but I remember earthquake drills merging into atom bomb drills and getting under your desk was the point, somehow safer there. The safety a desk can offer. John Lee Hooker singing about a snake, listen closely: everything is either a metaphor or something more, iconic, almost mythic. Water over the damn becomes the story of your life, yes, yes, that is me, the way the flow intersects the curb. A standing wave. Nothing if not forceful. Meaning is a paradigm. Let's assume you stop, notice something, is it any more important than anything else? Probably not. You choose one thing rather than another, almost nothing, but something, a glint of color against the field. The middle distance is white noise, anabasis, a place you retreat. Harvey swore nothing mattered, but killed himself nonetheless, black is always a color if you look close enough. Variations. We should all, I think, kill ourselves, in the interest of sanity. Answering that question. But we choose to live, imperfect as the world is, beat against the tide, because living is better than dying.