Friday, August 26, 2016


We wait for the train and it’s a long one that takes its time. The wheels are crackling and grinding while sounding as if they need oil, or are lacking something, - I feel that they should be, against all logic and reason, - rubber. Fatigue can make for strange imaginations. I think of the designations and markings/logos- so esoteric, odd, and it’s quite dark to write, even with a vehicle light, and take pictures, and do everything at once. Plus there is a police vehicle up the way, a four door SUV affair and I can see Johnny Law within the open space of some of the train cars that go past. It’s going to be a late walk, and I, to mix pronouns, if that is what it am called, - am losing the sun, however romantic it looks. Wait and wait. Wait and wait. That grinding sound, - but its okay. I try and memorize the logos, - but soon forget them. They made for something, would sound well in a story or something. I know that Triton is a common one, - but it would not be honest to say one this time had Triton writ on it. Damn. There is something about the logos. I wait and take a few pictures. The thing goes off in the distance, and it would be well to just go a bit on the tracks then because it is safe, and take a photo of the great train curling along the track into the forest, into the late-late dusk. But what would Johnny Law, - maybe an ex-football player of quiet high school fame, think about that? Plus I am delayed; I am late for an already late walk. Up in the lot we are, - and embark into the fields. The cool air that has arrived dulls the power and prowess of any mosquitoes, and this is nice for a change. The place is overgrown but in a graceful and great manner. Quietude is there, a certain electrical buzz or hum and I don’t know its origins. My ears let out a veritable pop and its either physical, from a cold, - this hum, or its metaphysical, spiritual, as in the sound of no-sound, or the sound of spirit, or the murmur of an ascension symptom, ie- new agey speak. I ignore it either way and continue. Then the dogs begin to explore, dance, sniff, run, play, rustle, and are generally happy letting out energy and getting the brains to work. We have come to the right place
Wow how the sun does go in, to plagiarize myself,- which is a silly thing anyhow to
judge,-why should someone not be able to plagiarize themselves, or imitate themselves?- to hell with it- the sun goes down like a neon beet into a secretly sewn pocket somewhere on the other sides of fields and hills. We are far and far and far in now, - but I have lost the regular caution and worry and don’t mind. What comes shall come, - and it’s not that late anyhow. Look at them run, - man it’s like two acorns or laser beams, two sideways hail storm artifacts or marbles racing across the way. A bat is disturbed from its resting place and flies over us, only by a few feet, silhouetted against the purple-blue-dark orange sky. It goes like that, - and soon we walk the walk out from all of the verdant wild grasses, the little labyrinthine pathways and brambly parts too, from the hay stack, the tall and overarching birch tree solitary like the ghost of an old and faithful soldier true to a cause, from the fences on the perimeter where feral vines hold and grown and meander along and as long as they can manage until the autumnal weather begins to curtail and then stop this idea. On the way back the radio has a woman that talks about the akashic record, - its design, purpose, content and context. There is no train, only the memory of such, and there is no Johnny Law for he has gone home to bed or to fulfill his night shift somewhere else.

There is no need for all that anyhow, because the only law then is the cosmic order and rhythm of the firmament and fields.


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