Proust

I long to feel the wind on my skin and hear the crashing of the waves
along the shore on a dark moonless night wondering what the rising
tide will bring in after the storm when I beach comb in the
morning like I was wont to do in my early childhood
while my black dog barked at the waves and
ran down the beach until she became
a black spot in the distance
my father would walk
with me
and when we
would turn and head
for home he would call
after our dog downwind over
and over again until she would
suddenly reappear all out of breath
frothing at the mouth smiling ear to ear
so happy to be alive when did those days
bygone end up as only tiny memories in my
mind which I only take out and dust off now
and again, they’ve both been dead so long and
life goes on but these are the stuff that our hearts
are made of when we were all so innocent singing by
the camp fire roasting marshmallows and telling ghost
stories in the long shadows of the flames and sleeping in
our pup tent in our own backyard under the umbrella pines
my estranged brother read me Kiplings “The Strange Ride of Morobi
Jukes” and in the sand we found evidence that deserters from every
army in the European Theatre of World War II hung out where we were now; C rations, Nazi coins, Italian rifle cartridges, 50 caliber anti aircraft
shells, hundreds of them, if they could speak what a tale they would tell
there were only two villas in the woods there at the time, the one across
from us belonged to Conte Ciano; the world is a stage constantly changing
like the sea; we never know what comes next despite our best laid plans
and if I had attempted to predict then what was to become of me I
never would have guessed the person I have become; a stranger
to my own past self who was clearly played by someone else
like a manic depressant I go from crest to valley to crest
like a sign wave burrowing through life but for a few
moments of feeling confidence before fate takes
down my house of cards like the crashing
of the stock market; alas what illusions
we live by pretending to be in control
of anything at all rather than
admit to the truth of
randomness
like the
twists
and turns
of our gene pool
before us; it all began
a long time before Adam and
Eve were ever conceived in the mind
of man of that I can assure you my single
celled friends if they could speak could tell you
as could the spirits in the rocks and trees that you
don’t believe in, as if they care what you believe in
“what is needs no proof and what isn’t can’t be proved”
famous Tibetan one liner from my dharma buddy Keith Keven
the man with two first names who made Nirvana at age forty
come out come out wherever you are, allie, allie in free, we play
hide and seek with truth as long as our lips can still deceive us

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