Yeah, I’m a receiver and I pick up signals all the time. I’m also a transmitter.
However, is what I’m sending and receiving, is it any good? Is it good for anyone, especially me? We are living in the Information Age. If one thing is true, it’s that if you ask the question, you’ll the answer. You might not like it, though. A priest said that at a friend of mine’s wedding many years ago and he was right. Some questions don’t have an answer that you’re ready to accept. It was crazy to hear a man of God basically tell two people who were about to devote their lives to one another “Don’t ask questions of your spouse.” Not like he was some old school misogynist saying that a woman’s place is this or that.
I get it. I know… I read the words and I know where they came from. I just wonder, if anyone else knows. And if they did, what would they make of it?
***** ***** *****
The yellowed pages of a note from years past peeked out from between hardback texts, workbooks, and a well-studied lab manual. She knew by-heart the words on every leaf in the pile. Her education. A word skeleton overlaid with concept striations, sheathed in the skin of hours sacrificed in the library. A corpse—it reeked, mocked. Two weary fingers pinched the corner, dancing in the air-conditioned current. She tugged.
Sitting behind her in 320, the girl who be-eff-effed her.
Story of my life. All I wanna do is get through this class with my sanity.
The guy from 214. The crush—he wouldn’t quit.
Study? Sure. A drink? I really can’t.
Every class, every mate, an obstacle.
The weight of the books allowed
the yellow page to slip out a few inches
further. Shadowstones landing
on the desk next to her elbow, a solitary candle’s light etched
cave paintings upon half her face.
Thoughts racing her fingers,
to what end they
didn’t know. Words heard,
words she said again and again, showing
themselves on the yellow page.
Candle light, dancing.
Leaded breath hung
as she pulled.
Pulled at the paper.
The words. She needed them.
She needs the words. More than ever.
Give me my words, damn it.
black. Flickering flame.
Salty brow. Skin. Air.
You can do it
***** ***** *****
It’s funny, the idea that we are searching for intelligent life beyond our solar system. Perhaps we should turn the megascopes towards Washington, Harrisburg, City Hall. Hollywood. Perhaps the mirror… I’m in need of a connection, something, someone, somewhere to download my brain. I’d hate for something to happen and everyone will be asking
“Well, din’chya back it up?”
“It hadn’t occurred to me.”
“That’s a shame. What did you have in there?”
“My brain? Everything.”
“Can’t you save anything? Call tech support?”
“I don’t think they have tech support for learned shit. For memories. For dreams.”
“Well, they should.”
“Yes. They should.”
As always, thanks for stopping by.
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