yobech505

Sitting in a vintage Morris chair.  Belonged to my Great Grandfather.  Half reclined and typing, I go thought chasing,  thinking about the Royal typewriter I had in a time considerably prior to the current life events. What am I putting my over digitized mind through as I allow it to comprehend a whole lot of what is so altered from what may be considered by large numbers of national citizenry;  that which was a much less electronized hysterical, or is that ‘historical’ (yes, I think) place in the life timeline.

Care.  I do care.  So much was missing during that series of yesteryears.  Stuff I couldn’t miss because it wasn’t invented to be missed yet.  But am I still wishing for it, and especially the follicles that disappeared atop my cranium, then alas, re-constructing inside the chamber beneath where those hair roots once lived, the tangled pulls of the boar’s hair brush after a long ride on the Triumph, and creating a trial to reconsideration.  

Nobody seems to remember the 650 TT Special.  Yellow tank, red ‘Triumph’ in cursive on the side?  Lucas electrics that seemed to flicker the most when I had the clutch in, coasting down the southern side of Twin Peaks towards Portola Drive?  At Night.   

Girlfriends.  Some I recollect with just the tiniest reminder, others  are pulled out with giant forceps that show their shape in the form of corners, curses and “why the hell did I do that, question mark, style repensing.  (Ooh, I like that word!   NEW VOCAB!)  

Minor hilariousness, some are still about in my built in RAM.  Some are live.  We still talk.  Others are, as I am, digitized in the modernized monitor access, to be seen only on the mini screen and talked with in chattable format when they, like me, can figure out how the whole thing operates.  Like red headed Rhonda from Mill Valley.  That early crush was unravelled by a trip to Beirut and then a move across Mr. Strauss’ bridge to the neighborhood adjacent to the previously implicated Portola Drive.  Or Shannon, who my mother adored but who I never really knew if I had a crush on or not.  Always liked her, so how is that defined?

From a single’s point of referred implication, I don’t know what lies after the next key stroke or my personalized style of stroll through the nuances for our generation, the shopping mall.  Who is there?  What connections will be made for the days I haven’t occupied a place on this oblique spheroid yet?  Unfold!  I command thee!   No.  Just kidding.  I can wait.