Transform Eschatologies – Round 5 : Page 8

November 13th, 2016

I dash back across Objective without even checking the status of traffic and reach the sidewalk safely in time to be blown nearly over by the wind displacement of an angrily honking semi-trailer truck. Right on the edge, that’s where the real living is!

Relieved of my burden, my stride is light as I first hum, then sing, the Grateful Dead at full volume, heedless of stranger’s stares over their double moccachinos, submarine sandwiches and banana splits shared with toddlers. Fuck ‘em if they can’t handle a time-warped hippie belting out Sugar Magnolias and acting like something out of a Woodstock documentary. I’m finally myself again.Free to be me. Just being alive feels like a half drop of acid right now.

The exhaust from bottlenecked traffic casts a grim haze over the sky, and I curse as I cough in recognition of the poor air quality. Didn’t I read somewhere they’d invented a flying car that works on antigravity? Can’t be too soon. We’re eating the earth with these damn internal-combustion engines and the dead rock we lay down to provide them with access.

I promise to never drive a car again. I’ll get a bicycle, an old- fashioned Schwinn Cruiser, vintage, restored, with the big wide seat and coaster brakes. I’ll walk everywhere I can and die with a trim, svelte figure.

Die! Not that I’m afraid, but must it be so soon? I’ve already got a few ideas for the follow-up to Transmigration Blues. A novel from the point of view of a quartz crystal, or a star. A non-fiction collection of satiric essays and sardonic short slices of life. Drama. I’ve always wanted to write a one- man show for stage. Or one woman. A manifesto for Crazy Bear’s new political party, Socialist Libertarian. A deconstructive analysis of the Bible from a psychedelic perspective.

Found a religion! Inspire a revolution! Transform eschatologies!

Huddled over my keyboard I harbor the godlike power to influence the minds of literate people for generations. Goddess is, after all, a novelist, the primal Author who created with a Word. She gives a lot of latitude to us worker bees pecking away relentlessly at stuff for Her to read, because like all writers she is an insatiable bookworm, but in the end we get retired and recycled like everything else.

Commissioned or not, this novel is up against an inflexible deadline. Non-negotiable. Not to sound ungrateful, Goddess, but it is a bit unfair. I’m still a promising up-and-comer.

So work harder.

Easy for You to say, I sneer resignedly. Sometimes She sounds like a Jewish mother, which according to my mom is exactly what She is. But it’s good to be on speaking terms again.

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