ALL THE MORNINGS OF THE WILDLING CITY

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ALL THE MORNINGS OF THE WILDLING CITY

Like a spindly-legged grain of blackened rice, this little critter is dozing at the bottom of my morning lavatory. As I brush my teeth, I contemplate the creature’s future prospects.

Shall I attempt to squash it so that Liz won’t encounter it later? Shall I wave so that it takes the hint that there are larger forces at work here? Will the critter zip away to safer haven?

Most mornings in the wildling city are like that. Decisions must be made. Or not. Every moment of indecision is a moment of decision. As Harvey Cox said, “Not to decide is to decide.”

Moments later, beneath the prickling shower, muffled sounds transmit from the radio, teasing me with snippets of information that I have to string together on my own. Words like Afghanistan…president…teaser…hurricane…blockhead…

The rice-sized spidery critter gathers up what free will is left and flicks itself into elsewhere.

The soap bar diminishes a fraction in my hands, the large towel engulfs me, misted mirrors reflect vague aspects of me, outdoor skies peek in through a high window, morning begs to begin its forward thrust toward eventual dusk.

Later,  I spend a few moments attempting to select an easy-rolling, silent shopping cart in order to cruise store isles unnoticed and meditative. There is no cooperation among the metallic wheeled skeletons. My cart squeaks harshly, as do carts of other shoppers.

Strewn about the cavernous arena, other shopping carts call out to each other like feral animals under stress.

The wildling city teems with beings both animate and inanimate, all wending their special fates in indecipherable patterns that, combined, create a global symphony entitled life on earth

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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TWILIGHT OF THE GODS MY FAVORITE TIME OF DAY

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 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/twilightofthegods.mp3

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TWILIGHT OF THE GODS MY FAVORITE TIME OF DAY

 It’s a simple act of nature, this eclipse thing. All mythology and mysticism and symbolism aside, an eclipse is pretty simple from the point of view of us earthbound or moonbound species.

In a solar eclipse, the moon briefly cruises between us and the sun. If you are an Earthling, you wonder where the sun went. Oh! There it is. It was just hidden from view for a couple of minutes. During a lunar eclipse, the earth comes between the sun and the moon. If you are a Moonling watching from atop a crater, the sun disappears behind Earth. Eventually, the sun peeks out and things get back to celestial normalcy.

When I was a kid, the skies above were so much more exciting than the earth under my feet. So, every time I got a chance to escape into the night skies, I took it.

Here is one memory of those long-ago days:

When I was a young one just trying to absorb the fact that I’d never be a Babe Ruth or an Albert Einstein or an Edgar Allan Poe or a Gregory Peck, I received for Christmas, sitting there just beyond reach of the carnival-decorated gaudy fir tree, a SPITZ JUNIOR PLANETARIUM, manufactured by HARMONIC REED CORPORATION OF ROSEMONT, PENNA.

It was a most special Christmas gift.

Just looking at it now, in my mind’s eye, it has remained crystal-clear all these many years: a shiny black flexible-plastic globe bifurcated by a yellow rubber equatorial flange that represents the stellar ecliptic and incidentally holds the two half-spheres together. The black globe sits atop a white plastic observatory-shaped base, and the whole thing can be rotated round and round as well as moved up and down to simulate all the naked-eye observable movements of the stars.

To appreciate the planetarium, you had to take it into a pitch-dark, preferably cube-shaped room and slowly turn up the rheostat just above the off-on switch on the front of the base. If you did it just right and just slowly enough, you would suddenly feel yourself transported to the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle of the planet in the middle of the universe because, all around you, there would suddenly appear stars in exactly the same positions, the same configurations, as they would appear if you actually were in the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle of…etc.

Even if you couldn’t go outside to see the stars, even if it was cloudy and raining, even if you had just come indoors from the humid sunshine, you could still go into that darkened room and be somewhere else in time and space and feel all alone in a crowd of billions of others whose names you did not know.

One day way back when, my sister Rosi got my SPITZ JUNIOR PLANETARIUM out of storage and presented it to me and I took it home and now I sleep again in the middle of a darkened field in the middle of the night in the middle…

Whenever the demon insomnia causes my eyes to flicker open, I can see the old familiar stars keeping me silent company and reminding me that they will always be there and that any problems that seem gargantuan now are minuscule compared to the distant silent coolness and the close-up noisy fury of those suns upon suns upon suns out there. The mathematics and physics of astronomy escaped me early on, but the sheer personal poetry of the tiny points of light so large and so far away still affects me and still makes me remember what it was like to be a small boy and open an incredible shiny gift that pure and lonely Christmas so many eons ago in Tuscaloosa, Alabama

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

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BONGO MAN DISRUPTS DUM DUM DEARTH QUEST

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http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/bongomandisruptsdumdumdearthquest.mp3

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BONGO MAN DISRUPTS DUM DUM DEARTH QUEST

The idling motor of the muscle car is rhythmic and sputtery. All the windows of the car are down, so that passersby can hear what goes on inside, so that the driver can hear what’s happening all around.

His baseball cap reversed, the driver is leaning over the steering column. His fingers and palms are beating out complex tempos upon the wheel, as if it has suddenly become a set of bongos.

He stares straight ahead at nothing. He is lost within a labyrinth of chuckling carburetor, puffy leaping hands, dipping chin, unheard lyrics, imagined tunes, recalled memories, imagined symbols and meanings.

I walk past the crookedly parked vehicle, not daring to interrupt the flow, the flows, of this bongo dream-man. I am my own reverie, he is his own reverie, and the two of us are just comets passing and bypassing one another, each with our own celestial small wisdoms, each with our solitudes enforced.

Does the bongo man know that my only quest this humid morning is for a supply of Dum Dums to re-fill the take-one-free basket at the bookshop? Dum Dums are not always readily available, so I’m making several stops in my trek. Do I know what back-story drives the idling-motor bongo man to perform his audienceless concerto? Does the bongo man know about Dum Dums and old bookstores and tiny insignificant quests such as mine?

Is each of us equally significant in the schemelessness of things? Do we count?

He counts his beats, I count my Dum Dum blessings, the sad and scruffy parking lot spreads heavy and forlorn beneath us.

And our universes part ways unheralded by time and space and journey

© Jim Reed 2017 A.D.

 jim@jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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