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I can see this anytime I want. I could see it now, if I got on the roof. I would be able to see it from my window, but there are too many beautiful trees. Me gusto mucho. I’m so glad we moved back, and so happy we were able to. Life is good.

I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trouser rolled.

- T.S. Eliot

I am old. I finished growing old at least a decade ago; now I shrink into myself like a rotting peach. Days without pain and stiffness are far behind me. Where once I ran, I now hobble. Where once I danced and leapt, I now creak and sway like a ship trapped in ice… for what else is an elderly person, but a human being rent asunder by the relentless pressure (from all angles) of time and it’s bastard child entropy. If I had the saliva I would spit and curse them both, but I am old and robbed even of my ability to damn my enemies. All the juices sour and then dry up, leaving only the dust of memory, if you’re lucky. I’ve seen friends, family, and even enemies lose their memories, lives, and finally their humanity to senility.

The brain dessicates and blows out through the ears, bit by bit, like beach sand. That sand is then used by the Sandman to put children to sleep. Where do you think dreams come from? They are the scattered memories of the countless millions before you, reconstituted in the tears of the afflicted. Why do you think young children fight bedtime so passionately? The Sandman is a demon. That’s why he comes at night… and one day fragments of your wedding day will pollute the dreams of a child not yet born.

When you get old enough, you see the patterns emerge.

I have no idea what’s going on.  What is trust but a pad of wet reeds? Underneath the warp and woof of vegetable matter, it’s turtles all the way down. Meaning? Meaningless? MEaninglessness? What if there’s no there there? What if there is? Bubbles in the tub, circling the drain. Fractal remembrance, stuttering and badly buffered.

So much in life is irrelevant, and yet love is real, and people feel, and… everything matters to somebody. Web after web collects until you’ve woven your own shroud. We’re back to weaving and fabric and patterns, and meaning… weaving meaning out of the the tendrils of experience, and feedback.

My god. We’re trying to catch the echoes of a sound that never was.

No wonder suffering exists.

Philip K Dick’s image of the Black Iron Prison looms large tonight.

“We don’t have any ideology. We don’t have any theology. We dance.”  – A Shinto priest to an American Theologian