When September Ends,-

Walking here in the North Country Fair under grey skies with the temperature dropping to hover somewhere below zero. Walking down the hill that will take me to the “heart of downtown”, I can see across the sheet of ice that is the harbour to the mainland The day could be called a form of a hazy shade of winter, but what in southwest Texas would be called an ugly day,-
I can almost hear the strains of “Going Home” as done by Paul Robeson like a soundtrack to this moment in time and to what I see. As I feel the wind forcing me to adjust my watch cap, and gloves. Looking out on downtown from the beginning of Main Street in the grey light has me feeling like I am the only person here. Seeing the buildings with their false fronts like something from the old west, as they stand there with the massive snow drifts in front of them, lends to the feeling that I am in Tombstone or some other Western ghost town. The ghostly strains of Robeson’s song echo like the burden of memory as my mind drifts back.

Recalling one early evening when I stood out on Market Street under grey skies when I saw what appeared to be one whom I know has been gone for at least two decades now, as either a newly minted creation, or version. A total stranger seen exiting from those bronze doors across the street, with whom I will never speak with, or speak with. Feeling the passing of faint mist rolling in from the bay, as I shift my head, and give “the office”, as a silent salute of that earlier passage. Now watching the beginning of a throng forming as others emerge like an exodus onto this October Street towards drink, dinner, or home, and to whatever sleep awaits them,-
The one who’s hair matches the bronze of the doors, and that I will never speak to has gone away as well, as I stand here trying to define that wave of emotion that has washed over me with her passing. Forcing me to remember and remind myself it is just the way of the Tao, and the way. For the Tao is as old as God and was created by him to direct us to live in the moment. And now this moment has ended, as that one from long ago is swept away, and is once again resettled in the smoking mirrors of memory. Past is past, with just the future being the only unformed thing.

Passing by a jewelers windows, I notice the small pedestals that are showing an absolute formal absence of precious things, that have been locked up for the night. Noticing the beggar that lies there with his legs wrapped in brown paper. Almost as if someone had decided to partially sculpt a medieval knight from office materials. The trim calves, and tapered toes seem to be a form of elegance calling out for the armour to be finished,-
Above the effect of the paper, and tape the man seems to be nothing more than either a blur or a spastic scribble, with his having been abraded by asphalt, concrete, and misfortune. Becoming the colour of the pavement. Standing here with my coat draped over me like some sort of resting insect’s wings I hail a cab, and has me considering that the signal of life is, and can be distorted by starvation, blows of fortune, and chemicals, being some of the syndromes of the city’s womb. Getting into the cab I see one of the scars I carry and am reminded that every battle will become obscure. Only the moment, and the truth are the only things that matter absolutely.

The moment shifts into alignment when the Tao moves so all can come into balance. I also know that there are voices that can be heard in the city, sounding as if they had been cobbled together from the wind through the skyscraper canyons, or from the cracking of Great Lakes ice, or from the sound of frogs from dark nights in the Deep South. The sound sometimes gives the impression of either decay, or of great age,-
Bringing up a curious paradox to life that no one can explain: Who truly understands why we must die a bit before we can grow again? I ponder this question as I sit back in the cab and make my way out of the city, along with the fact that it seems that only spectres still have pity in their dark eyes where the sun never shines on the city’s streets, with fear being the only thing that breaks the silence. Something I once learned from both fools and sages, as well as the fact that everyone has dues that must be paid, with feelings that come back to haunt you.

Sitting back as we head down the interstate leaving the city, and passing signs in the dusk, and finding myself looking for my name on them as the road unwinds. Having me thinking of historical precedents, knowing that history is a subject with a vision. Yet, most think of it as something dead. History in the older sense is a historical concept, as well as a narrative form. With the narrative being revised with every generation, and has since become subject to manipulation, and interpretation. To become like a piece of plastic. Proving that there is nothing anymore held sacred,-
Just like there is a form of music for the disenfranchised. Most of which are part of a young proletariat barely, and rarely caring, or attempting to make their way in a post, post, industrial America. With disillusioned words finding their mark as if they were bullets fired. Most of those don’t believe that Death’s honesty won’t fall on them, then naturally life might be lonely. But, that’s all right, cause it’s just life and life only.

Now finding myself standing at Whiskey Point near the old lighthouse and the Coast Guard boathouse seeing that the day has finally decided to give up on itself in disgust. I find that I don’t have any words of consolation, trying to live life in the moment which is all that really matters, following the Tao’s movement. Remembering when we were told to dream on until our dreams came true, until reality set in making us settle for what we have,-
Starting to make my way back to the house in the wind on the ice finding there are times I feel as though I am at war, as private reasons, conversations, and feelings can nowadays be seen, and read by all of those who call. Like a violation of personal terms established in earlier conversation(s). Then again I know that if my thoughts and dreams could be seen, and read, then they would probably put my head in a Guillotine. By those who make the rules for both the wise men, and the fools.

Copyright Timberwolf International LTD: March 2014-1