B"H
is a book about running from the meaning of life to a meaningless .
The throbbing within my soul will cease to identify wit h
possessions, or people. The molecules are a presence in purpose.
The heat they produce is the spark of life and must impulse in staid
trans mission to be, or not to be.
Therefore, even if my thoughts are delusional they describe how
the motions of events in the realm of thought interact while I jot
down these words sitting in the bus station near the city of East
Bay. Up the road approximately half the distance fro m the
vanishing point at 400-meter distance, the movements of severa l
individuals mulling around in the costume of homeless people
caught my eye. The sa me technique was deployed previously,
when so me orange costumed monks boarded a bus on which I had
been riding. People of like character smile at one another, but I
exerted restraint to not let the light eradiate my face. In retrospect,
I see beyond the routine choreograph ed by those who wanted it to
draw my attention, hoping to determine if I identified with such
characters. A psychological examination that determines what
most attracts my attention.
It's like seeing policemen on their foot patrols, armed wit h
"stingers," guns and an array of electronic devices, whose purpose
is to establish that criminals will not get away with behavio r
deemed forbidden by the society in which they are interacting. I
had trekked many miles through the streets of Safrascity, making
up the rules as I went along; changing the choreography at every
step and by the time escaped ho meward had pulled the wool over
their eyes. The government was laboring in order to get my
attention at every step, a running entertainment, including a
"dance of the firetrucks" choreographed just for me. As though
they had to devise expectations they would project on me and eac h
day as if scripting a new film, the cost of which astrono mical; to
play movie clip dra mas with mechanical, electronic, and vehicular
equip ment paid for in taxpayers hard earned dollars.
Singing in the Rain
That which will have been me is what I am until the past
becomes now. During my strolls through Safrascity, I overca me
many hurdles, but lost neither a step nor a breath in my dispositio n
to any future towards which I strove. Cars parked and jockeyed
themselves in driving postures, reverse at an angle, etc., a
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