This is part 56 and is almost the last part before I make yet another book...
I was carrying around with me all the places I’ve ever been, like splinters in my soul, and trying to bottle them for a good price or throw darts at them all night long… when the doorbell rang.
Pink Floyd was on the record player, set the controls for the heart of the sun, and I was listening to it, and so hardly heard the bell. But I did hear it, even if faintly, and felt compelled to go answer it. And so made my way towards what was calling me.
I made it to the door, and as I opened it, a man fell in and crashed on my floor with a bit of a todo and all that kind of stuff.
Closing the door I rushed to help him up and brush off his coat and lever him off the floor, the poor dear.
He was the sensitive kind and took it to heart and began working up to giving me a kiss for my troubles, so I took his coat from him and sat him down beside two empty glasses on the table.
The sod was loaded with a bottle in every pocket. And taking out a bottle and pulling the cork off with his teeth he cursed the gods and poured the juice into the glasses, which cheered me up no end. Cheers I said picking up my glass and thinking: maybe he’s my kind of guy: a rocket and a wine drinker to boot.
So I said: the snake’s tail is longer than a loop you know?
Give me some more of that there wine he said, pointing at the bottle that had got away from him.
And then we spent a cosy night together proposing things that meant nothing and everything like electronic postcards shooting back and forth in the wind we were making so that we had to laugh at the absurdity of it all.
In the long slow hours that came and went that brushed all of our eternities aside and caused some kind of stirring deep within our hearts so that we rose up to be blessed, we found: we were of the moment come what may; we were the children of love; we were saved and lost as we were pulled to be saved.
Sometimes the night is like a dream, a hope factory of expectation where patterns are woven in the dust of our making that will last forever in the Maya slip of our dreams.
Image from me
