Through a window? Don't ask me. I don't know how love comes into this thing. Upstairs, my darling, my personal Anne Hathaway, blazes an Art Tatum beat on her xylophone. House lights make mirrors of the windows. Suddenly posed by the incandescent window, I sense generations. Out in the dark, beyond our warm, yellow lights, dozens of Gearys are growing, intending, each forming "a center of the universe." The feeling has reign. Soon I am hooped by countless great-great-great-great-grandchildren. I laugh at them. I show them a guitar.
2:15 PM. Brandy, no kidding, that's her name, bartends in downtown Memphis, calls me for work. Lion damage, she claims. I get there. UPS and FedEx delivery guys across the street have just been attacked by lions. In this country, our filthy rich overlords stockpile high-powered rifles and ammo, then deduct it from their taxes! Where is the God I was taught to believe in? No ambulance. Let lions do the heavy lifting. All those holy words. Is the self only a metaphor? Wish the hell I knew. Rosebud is all. If I had time there would be another window metaphor here. Instead, it's just rosebud.
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