The cathedral clock across the street from Nick’s home rang out the hours, the quarters. The clock chimed out his life, the Westminster Quarters and memories floating from the august belfry, the huge bells hidden inside, the clock ticking. The clock Nick once tended to.
Continue reading “The Flight of Time by Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri”
When I was about seventeen years old I met myself in a downtown park sitting alone on a concrete bench in a small amphitheater. I was not skipping school—I did not do that kind of thing. And anyway, it was summertime. It was an ordinary summer day with oxygen blue sky vibrant behind the office towers with revivifying sunlight. The few trees were green, the leaves glossy and stiff with chlorophyll-rich fibers respiring life. Either side the park, steady sparse traffic rolled by in opposite directions on one-way streets. When I came upon him there, I did not recognize the man life had made of me. I was about thirty years old in that malingering guise. My seventeen-year-old self was with a friend and nor did he recognize me. But I may be forgetting, I am grown older … Even I, who saw so clearly, have become confused about what is what and contradict myself at every turn; at every remove, remove myself further from myself. Soon I will be unable to return to who or what I always was, and my dissolution will be complete, as is the way of all flesh; as is the way of all that may be said to exist. Do not believe me, see for yourself. It’s more miraculous than ever you might imagine. What is more miraculous than anybody could ever imagine? What is? Exactly!
Week 176 has come and gone and here we are at week 177.
I’ve been working on a story this week. I’ve enjoyed thinking about it, structuring and editing and trying to spot the inevitable mistakes that are invisible to me but obvious to Nik and Diane! I’ve spent quite a bit of time and that doesn’t bother me. It’s a lot of fun.
Enjoying time is relative. I can spend hours cooking, reading, working on this site, listening to music and appreciating alcohol. Time doesn’t matter when you are doing what you enjoy. But working, getting a haircut, travelling to work, watching TV all does my head in. I resent the time that I spend. But the worst ever is gardening. Sorry folks, but those of you who enjoy this activity are masochistic perverts. To be fair, I have let my garden become fairly manic this year and yesterday was its first cut. I’m hoping for a drought from now to September, then the frost to hit. One cut a year is more than enough.
I had to borrow Death’s scythe due to the length of the grass
Continue reading “Week 177 – Time, Jimmy Hoffa And A Cure For Tarzan’s Constipation”
literally stories 