25 January 2008. Cold, rain. A lighter gray against the glistening dark wet asphalt, two parallel yellow lines, the rules of geography, and one rickety state law sign, tilting to the south: yield to pedestrians. Forlorn.
Verloren. Sabina, yesterday evening. I try to explain--to account for--my torn and humbled scraps of brown corrugated board--painting on air, as it were, on time itself, as present as one can be possible, and yet, the problems of eternity. Eternity, yes--a line from a song. Just down the street: a curio shop, dry goods from Maroc, a Singapore sling. And pinned to the wall: photo of a single wave on a glassy morning, next to the Oceanside pier. Bait house half-way out, man in red Macintosh--or was it a faded flourescent orange safety vest--with hooks and lines and sinkers--balls of lead, clipped to a length of silver line...
"We'll lower him down on a golden chain..."
Just ask Chuang Tzu, next time you see him...
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