The latency period lasts only as
long as it takes someone to identify it and work it into conversation so as to
detract from the glaring inconsistencies and tautologies that might otherwise
turn the listener off. Might force him to make a decision regarding the sherry
and its inflated price, its tendency to make the head swim. I make the rounds
one last time, sitting in on the banjo (an instrument I know next to nothing
about but from which I can nevertheless extract something very like a tune in
its tendency to begin and end in roughly the same location), examining the
exposed skin of the fingers of men and women who have spent all day in the sun because their
livelihood demands it (think dredging up crustaceans from the briny deep, think
the running of barbed wire fence), and finally wrestling with eleven or twelve
loosely interrelated concepts hurled at me in rapid succession by the members
of the chess club huddled in their usual corner of the delicatessen that has a
picture of a rabid boar on the front of it because a likeness of a sperm whale was
deemed too expensive by the proprietor and apt to cause confusion. We can’t be
expected to fall for the same bit of deception as brought the Incas to their
knees but the present difficulty has as much to do with geometry, with how we
visualize space and the objects that take up that space, as it does with our
genetic backgrounds and the convenient phrases handed down to us over
generations by people who didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying or
how they were saying it. They were too busy pulling the bits of dirt and the jagged
pebbles from their flesh that had gotten there because the people at some point
in their journey had fallen on them. Because they were never entirely convinced
their flesh was actually made of flesh until such time as the jagged pebbles
(and, of course, other things, like the sharp end of goose quills, say, or the
metal shavings produced by industrial strength grinding machines) got so catastrophically
stuck in it. By midnight, I think all I have to do is walk backwards for about
a block and everything will be as it was before I opened the cellar door in the
morning and heard the racket for myself – the plovers pitching a fit in the
sand dunes because they are, apparently, sick and tired of sand. The thunder
kicking up on the far range of hearing, rolling across the waves in an
ever-strengthening crescendo and then spending itself against the cliffs just
north of here where people jump sometimes to their death either because they
have underestimated the height of the cliffs themselves or they have decided
intentionally upon this fate instead of all the myriad others available to
them. The living to a ripe, and most likely incontinent, old age. The bounding
about on a pogo stick picked up at the flea market on a whim because that is
what the latter stages of one’s life are for – acting on one’s every saccharine
reminiscence. Clawing one’s way ferociously back toward what turns out finally
to be not merely an unattainable past, but an unknowable one as well, a cipher
with twenty two distinct characters in it, all shuffled about at random and
reassembled later with the cognitive equivalent of bamboo pegs instead of glue
because pegs help eliminate the mess.
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