While I wait for an inspiration to hit me or simply rub up against me and go, “Me now!,” I wait.
I wait for a style, a period, an influence, to work its magic upon my video clips of a trip to Alaska.
I have given up wanting a lead candidate to get my vote, now that the two leading candidates for U.S. President have declared themselves alike and equally adept at being either a wolf in sheep’s clothing or a sheep in wolf’s clothing as the situation requires.
C’est la vie.
I had given up reading books when my mother in-law got real sick and died. I resigned myself to not reading a book again after my father got real sick and died.
The complexities that I wished to weave in brainwave pattern matching/synching/syncopating have dissipated.
My vocabulary shrinking.
My wry, sarcastic sense of humour intact, mild but biting.
My automatically-correcting grammatical radar falling into disuse.
‘Tis me, here, though, isn’t it?
Time…time, time, time…time to consider new possibilities.
My country is no longer my own — it belongs and has always belonged to the wealthy alpha leaders.
My sights are set farther, out there in space and time.
I want to go further.
See a furrier.
Tell PETA, “Look, I slowly squeezed the main artery to the brain so that the animal went to sleep and died before I skinned it for my wife’s warm coat to wear to the opera, a more humane death than being eaten alive in the wild, or hearing your ranting chants.”
Look through my “complete” collections of National Geographic, MAD magazine, the New Yorker and other desk reference volumes.
Read my father’s copy of Pyle’s “THIS IS YOUR WAR.”
Stop thinking while this moment of memories with my father rushes through my endocrine system.
Stop feeling this pain.
Stop wanting to lash out and attack others for their successes, knowing death gets us all, no matter how far or short we got relative to fellow members of our species, dead or alive.
Your struggles and successes are not mine.
I slow down, soaking in the mixed emotions, the son standing here in place of his father, regardless of historical significance one may have or may not have had more than the other.
I cannot eat memories but they can eat me.
I can rewrite memories but not the events on which they are based.
The molecules, atoms and subatomic particles have moved on.
Why can’t I?
The animated graphic novel will have to wait.
So, too, the Alaskan travelogues, new and old.
I have only myself at the centre of this known universe in this current version of a dream/illusion/fantasy I try to get you to align with, just like everybody else.
How can I be different from and yet the same as you?
I wait for an inspiration.
Earth spins on its axis.
Our solar system spins around the centre of the Milky Way galaxy.
Toward or away from what are we expanding?
When time is meaningless, what are dreams about a future on another world?
I can crush the crystal ball with one hand, the shards opening fissures, wounds, tears in the fabric of spacetime.
We all know we have to eat. Most of us reproduce.
The moments we spend in-between, here, there, any/every where, what are they?
…so this is what it’s like to float in weightlessness…how long can I stay here?…do I have to leave?…there is no waiting when there is neither time nor space that waits for the me that is not-me which does not exist…