A similar name, a place, where he swore he had grown up,
a man from somewhere, as everyone is from
somewhere, yet as alien to these mountains as a duck
bred in the Sahara or a whale in the Tigress.
He remembers something, says
to himself I’ve been here before, not here but in a place
similar to here, listens to the gears shifting in a
truck—their meshing sounds, different, robotic, like a
voice-activated machine that flusters him, not because
it’s a technological wonder but because it lacks
wonder, lacks sensation, lacks a corruption he
He no longer hears what he once
listened to, nor is he appeased by homilies such as the
world is changing. He sees nothing changing, which is
where his confusion rises. Merely sequences have altered,
become public, when so much of it had been relegated
to cellars. Yet essentially he finds himself looking neither
backward nor forward—as if squatted on a boulder
from which he can view infinite angles, yet from each
gather the same information.
The color red is no longer the red he knew, yet it is
still a color, still elicits whatever a red elicits, and he has
realized that the majestic is not majestic but something
he once thought he possessed.
He adjusts what he can, but there are no real
adjustments to be made. Like outdated engines, he feels
obsolete, yet he can function efficiently, although
often in frustration. Where has he come from?
Where is he to go? He has no answer to the former,
and he can see others have no understanding of the latter.
But all continues—not as it must but as it does.