Dimly Mirrored

The past is a bucket of ashes. Just enough moonlight to glimpse a shad-bush out of the corner of your eye. You can't see anything, it's dark and you're not a cat. You might wish to be, strangers in the night, but the truth is much more boring, bagels clashing. I'm only attached to any of this in so far as I can actually move, which same is severely limited by the mummy-bag in which I find myself restrained. Life, as we know it. You must have noticed that the big show is fairly lame. The fault, I think, is completely logistical; given a different body, or a different place, you'd be completely different. Like shooting squirrels in a washtub, no, wait, like shooting fish in a barrel, nothing makes much sense. An exercise in futility, like reading Beckett's letters. What's not said. I'm a master of the pregnant pause, in truth because I lose my place, there's no higher calling, no "Fountainhead" thing going on. I simply forget what I was saying. Pegi, or TR, or Sara might say something that snaps me back to attention, but life is really about whether or not you can find morels. Not to draw too fine a line. I found so many, mushrooms on toast and a mushroom omelet before I think of a marinara with mushrooms on cornmeal mush. If you don't collect wild mushrooms yourself, you couldn't understand this connection. We're talking morels here. I had so many that I dried a batch and still ate as many as I wanted. Which is cool, because reconstituted morels, in cream, on pasta, is one of the great things you might ever eat. But it's a seasonal thing, not unlike herring roe or wild asparagus. So you accept a certain grace and lead with your tongue. It's not even a difficult equation: A then B and C follows. The audience might gasp, but we knew all along that I'd defer to anyone that had a clue. My nature, and the nature of the game.