Upward drizzle from the train to the platform to the escalator to the causeway.
The
Muse or one of her cellmates has obviously set up shop here: a causal
bunker, well protected. She's torching passer-bys with creative fire.
Most
of the commuters' suits are unreasonably fire-proof, but not mine.
I'm burned to ashes and am rising again before I even know what's hit
me. Under my left arm, The Book. In my right hand, a set of golden
tongs. Over my eyes: nothing. Everything is shining and new and
waiting to be discovered. Undulating fields of love as I see what
everybody else has become, and what I can do about it.
They're all letters:
Commuters come personalities come images come words come letters.
There's a pattern here, but it's in the fact that there IS no pattern
The
lawyers, accountants, programmers, construction workers, Baristas,
hangers-on, applicants, daycare drop-outs, businesswomen, bankers,
analysts and traders...
...all reduced to a single
letter each. Nothing to do with their profession; many aren't even
english: Hebrew, Sanskrit, Greek, Aramaic, French, Spanish, Slang,
Graffiti...
my personal Tower of Babel Buffet.
There
are no seconds here, however - all firsts; even the same letters
shine differently as I pluck them with my trusted tongs and put them
into the book.
It's mechanical at first, I pick and
choose who should go in, then relax into an almost random sweep, then
a fully fluid pick and grab.
The book flips pages as it fills, and even seems to be indexing itself.
The Muse is waiting at the exit, cigarette in hand and absurd pocket watch dangling from her waist jacket pocket.
"You like?" she
seems to ask as she takes the book opens it *exactly* in the middle,
and watches as a visual cacophony unfolds itself - up into
thunderheads, then splitting and folding and splitting and folding in
on itself, then spraying everyone in sight with chains of God, anchored
in the The Book.
With that, she says a word, the
crowd moves as one, and she skis through the lobby, out the door, and
through the downtown streets:
Creativity, pulled by God, through the noosphere and further.
God bless the Muse, and her Alphabet Soup.
Namaste.
