Some strain, now. Some real pull. I go past a bit, then he catches up, passes. I can barely turn the cranks.
And we have not yet arrived at Alba Road.
It's no good. The approach was never like this. The earth has stood up. I stop. I signal, and my companion returns the gesture. We are leaving off.
The dejected fate and forlorn expression of the defeated. There's nothing for it but to turn back, approach some more pleasant enterprise. We'll do our next projects separately, however. He was my Alba Road partner, but it was a failed partnership.
A subduction layer which heaved subterranean waves of mountain in my face to render me feeble and ancient.
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Friday, November 13, 2015
Tuesday, November 03, 2015
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
The distance discrepancy is probably due to larger diameter tires today, so that a mile is not what it was once upon a time. It's longer, therefore there are fewer of them, due to tire inflation. (Mileage may vary. In fact, it's guaranteed.)
When I drove the road west, I approached Tucson. The sign read
"Tucson - 25
Phoenix - 141."
Okay. A few miles further, having nothing better to do for 47 hours sitting there, I noted another sign. It told me
"Tucson - 10
Phoenix - 116"
which meant not only was I closing in on Tucson but so was Phoenix.
You know what carpenters say about lumber yards. You pay for the sawdust. They cut on the line, or just your side of it, and so your board foot amounts to inches.
Probably some corrupt official in the Federal Highway Department is shaving off miles and selling them on the black market, as black miles matter. Sort of like the Richard Pryor character in Superman III, the accountant who truncated slices of pennies instead of rounding them from a gazillion transactions and bought himself a little red Ferrari with the spare change. Some brother-in-law is operating a gold mine where a Comanche bead shop once did business in Yuma.
I regard the pivot into that trip as a conversation within an auto one summer evening headed south on 121.
James Arie is driving the Bad Plymouth while I sip and grin. There are others present. I ask about Existentialism, as James has been away to school, maybe studying philosophy ... or auto repair, for all I knew.
"Does it mean that I cannot improve my lot by skipping out to the coast?"
"It is the shaking off on the empirical level the overlay of doctrine, duty, dogma, and desolation in the adventure of a self worthy as only it can be of both striving and reward, person and chance, regard and reckoning."
"Yes," said Margaret Singer from in back, "but have you considered the power packs of all our cells, the mitochondria? In there, besides protein energy bars, are free radicals whose job it is to wreak aging, to diminish, eventually to destroy all our faculties to get rid of us, to move us individually offstage to ready the next act, to further the experiment. It's the best evidence we have of a power interested in the species or family instead of the individual. It's exactly like Geek mythology."
"I was hoping it meant I could start over on the coast ..."
I did anyway. Worked for me.
Sent from my Fire
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Interior - Neon
A cathedral of glass and tile. The subject is transit.
You will have to check your suitcase. Also your carry-on.
All right. I'm new to this. What duo I sho?
I'll do everything. Just raffle this ticket. Tomorrow there'll be another palace like this. You'll see signs. Follow the one that says'BAGGAGE CLAIM.'
Not yet. You do not go there. You place your claim rocket in the recycle bin. You walk away from the palace and you don't look back. You have that?
What happens to my baggage?
It will eventually emerge from the underground conveyer onto the carousel. It will begin to circle then. Round and round it will go, both your suitcase and your handbag. It will go on forever.
But ... Everything I am is in those bags!
There must be some continuity! I can't just reticent myself every day!
No, of course not. You are six years old, slightly plump, and you study bugs and draw comics.
No, no - well,I have moved on from that phase.
But I have places to be, people to meet, I have responsibilities now!
Yes, there will be a princess and a rodeo queen, then a teacher and a ventriloquist.
Hey, wait I know them. I've met them!
Say hello. Have a nice trip.
... From my KINDLE HDX
Thursday, July 23, 2015
"The game is musical chairs, with all the players circling the seats while the music plays. There is one less chair than there are players, and the one not finding a seat when the music stops is out. That's the liberal game. Now imagine one chair only and a player sitting and all others standing. And no music. That's the conservative game."
Sent from my iPad
Saturday, July 11, 2015
So they sneaked out of the hotel before breakfast. And here he was in the courtyard right behind them!
"Hey, missed you this morning. They need me inside for a minute but I'll be right back to show you around . " And he was off.
The Pope walked out onto the balcony, right on schedule. And right beside him, also waving at the crowd, was Seymour!
"This is hoax," said George. "That can't be the Pope. I'm gonna ask somebody. " And he moved off in the crowd, looking for anyone who seemed native Italian. Here's one.
"Excuse me, but can you tell me, is that really the Pope up there?"
"You mean the guy up there with Seymour?"
This has been a test of Tim's address book. Had it been a real email, there would be something in it. If I see no return, I'll delete your account from my contact app. Thank you.
Sent from my iPad
Tuesday, July 07, 2015
Antonio was sad, without knowing why. It was registered to him as depth. But it was his lady who saved him from the wiles of the Merchant of Venice, who was never sad, only mad. And so the lady Portia, played by a boy - as were all women on the English stage until the Restoration - dressed and passed as a young man. Gender was very confusing to the Elizabethan, as witness the Bard's mash notes to his young Lord, who evidently fancied him, to the extent the Sonneteer sought to excuse himself in deference to his lack of use for any extra appendage.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
I don't think English Lit profs spend much time with Sonnet 20.
I have never been clinically depressed, which suggests my simplicity, nor at all concerned by that lascivious, which argues my simple-mindedness. I don't even worry that the keyboard selector plucks more interesting terms out of the dictionary than I can. Lascivious? What was it thinking?
It was Thanksgiving and me and my brother Reloj were living as poors in El Paso. We had only stray items in the apartment of the ski bum who was having the usual feast with his lady and her family. I placed my hand on a cabinet and rested my forehead there. Just for a moment, just resting.
And Reloj asked what the master was. He was concerned. We were in hard times, but our very culture and literature was based on the Bohemian, the Beats. Yet even Jesus worried be had no place to lay his head, though even foxes have their dens. And here Reloj had lived out Down and Out in Paris and London by accepting a job as a dishwasher in a dive in Denison one literary evening.
I was in front of the small TV in the bedroom later, and Reloj enters grinning, holding two festive plates of whatsoever he could find in the kitchen; peas, squash, lettuce, but decorated so joyously it made me very glad. At least we would be fed. It would ask be better tomorrow. I was sure of it.
It was. Never since then have I placed a palm on a cabinet and settled my fevered brow upon it. I just have no knack for sad. It's just the superficial in my soul.
... From my KINDLE HDX
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
Sent from iPhone & Mailbox