Monday, May 19, 2014

5372. CAPETOWN IN CHICAGO

CAPETOWN IN CHICAGO
The garbled message meant little to me, and
said less. Some Uncle Mighty had died  -  he'd
fallen from the floor and smashed on the ceiling below;
or something of that nature. It was an iridescence
of light and time, and it had gotten me all mixed
up. Why was that kid wiping down your car with
what I perceived to be some old lady's bloomers
from like 1959? A pink '55 Chevy to boot? How
did any of that happen  -  last I knew you were
penniless; sightless in Gaza, sleepless in Seattle,
and any other of that crap which gets plugged
into our brains whether we want it there or not.
On the curb, out front of this guy's Westfield house  -
where it was junk day the other morning  -  trash to
him was piled high. Treasure perhaps to others. he
didn't care. mirrors and bedsteads, a nice toolbox
and a stand. Yet, most tellingly, and where I got
most tripped up  -  he'd thrown out, for the picking,
one of those most very beautiful, sepia toned, large
globes of the world  -  the ancient world, with its 
monsters and sea dragons and Terra Incognito stuff,
in a grand wooden stand of its own  -  perfectly right,
twirlable and library like. Was this some form of a
petrified resignation on the man's part? Old-timer,
'done with the world, and I give it all away!'

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