“The only truth is music.”
I run into Jack everywhere, mostly when I want to run away, which is always, except when I want everything to stay the way it is, which is also always—also the reason why I plan to run away.
For me, it’s a standing offer, a back up in a pick up loaded with pots of lavender to stick in the dry sod or mud or where ever lavender grows. I imagine he’d tell me to go. Who needs a car when you’ve got a thumb or a bar full of dim moons orbiting gins, stirring lies with the good aim of wet lips. I imagine he’d say, but why go? Why not exercise your right to stay in this seat and meet yourself over and over again by telling every stranger a different story, pouring in a little less truth every time until you’ve packed up every easel and folded it flat and that’s your life, a stack not of what you’ve painted, but the tunnel made from the places you crawled out.
I imagine he’d laugh at my pastel dream, call it a bullshit dharma, setting a doormat at the stoop of nirvana, asking for a wheel but choosing hubcap. So, today, Jack, on your ninetieth birthday, I’m going to sit in your lap with a beer next to a stranger, my white and dying cat who has leaned his skeleton next to my body, and tell him about the time he was a full moon.
posted by holly. “In some cases the moon is you. In any case, the moon.”