I have hit a wall that transcends normative existence. This is not a wall to be found at your local shopping mall between outlet clothing showrooms. This is not a wall between freedom and prison though closer to it (open air and barbed wire). It is a boundary of all I can know and all the knowledge that is out there away from me forever. All of the novels in other languages never translated to something I can read. All of the poorly informed translations I have read. All of the poorly informed translations I have read of other living human beings. Myself, eyes downcast because of cognitive malnutrition, no, because of cultural shaming, a new game to play, of privilege as a word with sour connotation and not something to be written about with pithy delight as Fitzgerald could in Gatsby’s mansion (now for sale, did you know). It is a privilege of the ability to carve time to writing. Bukowski would be much more harsh. He would say that if you do not make time to write then you are not a writer and never were one. I kind of agree. The present moment is a hectic one that takes a while to decompress into something as simple as the English alphabet to describe. There is a lot of simmering meaning lost in this initial translation. How could I possibly describe the taste of the second straight whiskey drink I had, the one where I told Anthony the bartender with good friends and amazing taste in music, should be “not as smooth as the last” and he poured a whisky to take the tar off of a wooden plank. An outcrop of taste and the lips burned through their callouses. I wonder where my new and temporal, no, temporary, roommates are at this time. It is past midnight on Father’s day, a sunday night. This is a night for celebration in local folklore. But not this house. This house is a hub for transient, zombie-like activity until the sun mercifully rises after setting so damned late. Do not forget of the 45th parallel. The huge orange slice of a latitude which we share with Paris and no other major city. It is a two country bonanza at this similar climate. In a few hundred years, Seattle would have earned the same romantic aspect as Paris, until the floods come. Until the livestock are lost. Until the skyscrapers dig their way through the atmosphere. Until executives have to wear oxygen masks. Until the scuba gear of a low-level operative is no longer so absurd. Until the flood warnings are what happens when you turn your living room lamp on and the couches are two feet afloat. Until the matches have no flint to strike and what will we strike them on? We will form a huge mass like a tidal wave and crash on a forsaken island in the South Pacific. One inhabit for thousands of years. Now to be submerged in our plastic.


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