Paddling upstream, against the current, giving gravity its grave moment of gravity, one wonders why the sky is blue.

Yet, one breathes oxygen, a component of the sky, so should one first question why one breathes first?

Is the sky blue because I breathe?

Do I breathe because the sky is blue?

If the sky is not blue, then do I not breathe?

I do not hold blue in my hand when I feel blue and I cannot feel the blueness of the blue I see in blues.

The muse, she is just a geeky kid, is she not?

When she feels blue, should I feel blue?

When she sees red, should I not breathe?

A long time ago, when centuries were counted in units of A.D. and B.C., a man was born.

1931 on the west side of Huntsville.

His father bought a house in 1936, the son attending every school that existed in Huntsville at the time, back when the town was less than 10K in population, long before 10K races became popular pasttime weekend sports.

Huntsville Elementary, West Clinton, East Clinton and ending with Huntsville High School, one of them where the old Masonic Lodge is, he seems to remember.

His father, a construction man, helped build Redstone Arsenal and then moved to Denver to build a military base out there, the boy attending Ebert school in fifth and sixth grade.

The boy fished where Big Spring Park now entertains lovers arm-in-arm walking down tree-lined paths, the downtown buildings elevated above blocked-off caves.

“Did you ever see the old courthouse before they built this giant block building?  It was a beaut’.  Too bad they had to tear it down.”

Sitting beside the 81-year old was “Cookie” Moore, has lived in Big Cove for 69 or 70 years.

Mr. Burritt used to drive down the mountain to get water from Cookie’s father’s well. “Best damn water God put on this planet,” Cookie’s father quoted Burritt as saying, his father reminding Cookie that must be a good thing since Burritt didn’t believe in God.

The well was capped off a couple of years ago because it was unsafe, the walls collapsing in.

“Do you remember Jerry Moore?  Well, he goes for dialysis three times a week now.”

When one’s red hair has naturally bleached white, one is ageless in a way that people from their 20s to their 100s seem to relate.

When one agrees it’s not the doctrine that dictates behaviour, it’s the way one treats others regardless of inconsistent, dogmatic interpretation which rules the airwaves that makes the difference for infinite optimistic practitioners.

Lee sorted through the memory banks, unraveling tendrils.

No longer able to say, “this is my distinct memory,” Lee turned to Guinevere.

“What have we done?”

“What haven’t we done?”

“What, not, have we done?”

“What have we done not?”

“Done what have we?”

They tossed question after question at each other, varying the tone, pitch, inflection, word count, word order, sentence structure and chemical composition of the rhetoric without question.

Geekiness is an honour bestowed upon the few.

Chomping a cigar while driving a big rig on Mars is riskier though no less taxing on the intellect.

Latter-day saints like Hiromi Uehara and Chick Corea proved that intellect was simply a matter of spent energy, not a question or answer about questions and answers.

Thought experiments repeated themselves — “if you don’t do this, your life will not be complete” — stretched beyond the limit of limits, beyond derivatives, beyond boundaries, [sub]sets, and snapped back into boundless states of energy.

When two people communicate through the aether, either Eiger or the eigenvalue and the eigenvector value vectors on the inflective, jazz standards falling ‘way to speakeasy swing bands playing on the third floor of a cotton mill turned art factory factoring facts or rings or stings or dings or ING, that thing you do when you don’t know the influence of adverts from your father’s advice to remember two things, the first you forgot and the second hidden in the wisdom of old coaches’ wisecracks, having a craic of a good time back on the Cliffs of Moher.

Lee danced like a marionette, a feedback loop giving his partner the answer the performance art asked in realtime on the dance floor, too much information lost in eye contact, conversations whizzing by in the literal blink, the link, sink, the edge of the skating rink, riffing on the wordplay unspoken in bodies bounding between the imaginary ends of an invisible rubber band holding a planet together with its strange relationship of physics and chemistry, a giant toothpaste tube forming sparkling lines of thoughts in electronic ink.

Happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Top o’ the morning to ye!

Erin go bragh!

It be midnight.

Sweet dreams!