mmmclxxvi

Chapter 13: Gemini Crickets

Lying beneath a magnificent oak tree in the middle of a
semi-deserted city on a lovely afternoon squinting up,
up, up at the sun, I am of two minds.  Do I just lie here?
Or do I stand up, shake of the detritus of oak and park
and city (and dogs both leashed and unleashed)?  Or

do I venture forth as I originally intended for my 

date with Edward, late as I am, given up on me 

as he likely has by now.  This is the current fork 

that I have happened upon in this, my balmy ver-

sion of a snowy evening of. . . . I check instantly 

to determine if Frost, too, was a Gemini. Nope,

Aries.  In this ,,, OTHER ,,, this separate, sunken 

universe, I am, as always, multi-tasking.  I type a 

line or two, then shift to the other side of desk, 

tap a few taps onto a separate keyboard than the 

one which I am presently using, flip through photos

I have taken throughout my life, or have been taken

of me – these happen to be from a couple of years 

ago – in an effort to catalog the entirety of my 

thus-far existence, adding locations, adjusting 

an incorrect date or two, making a few notes
on the line that reads “Add a description,” 

just in case, , ,of posterity?  Or mostly it

is self-discovery: attempting a gross

understanding.  So as to live with peace

and purpose.  And joy.  And contentment. 

After I’ve done this with, say, a dozen 

electronic slices of my past, I spin the

seat of my chair slightly further to my 

right so as to face the age-worn 

printer/scanner next to me, adjust the

diary of my grandmother, my mother’s

mother, in such a way that I can then
come back to my laptop, the one upon
which I am once again or still or

currently typing, where I then com-

bine press [Alt][tab] and then and

without interruption lift my pinkie 

while continuing to hold down the 

[Alt] key with my weakest finger, 

tap lightly with my pinkie onto

the [tab] key, which prompts 

the interface to my hand-me-

down Epson printer to the 

top of my laptop’s screen so

that I may then click on the 

button labelled SCAN, which 

will add on more slice to the 

tens of thousands of electronic 

slices of me that I will later 

spend hour upon hour of 

scrutinizing, tagging, de-

scribing, remembering and,

then, with the addition of this
new image of handwritten text 

that has moved from my grand-

mother’s diary into my laptop 

and then on up into one of

several so-called clouds, which 

is somehow genetically a part

of what will become me, even if
it is not of my actual memory – 

but a glimpse of that which is me
and of my history and holds

significance in what brought me

here – after doing all of this, 

coming back to the point of

origin at which I was when

I first began this litany (to-

day’s edition, anyway), I

will then scrutinize, along with
the rest of the expanding and
already bloated catalog that
is and will become, inevitably,
the guy sitting here tapping

these lines into existence, in
what is hopefully not simply
just an onanistic effort to 

reconcile that which is 

electronic and tangible 

with that which is not: 

with he who is still 

really doing this, just 

as curious and wanting
(wanting!) more than 

the sum of ever, but

who is, nevertheless,

cumulatively and

only, of course, as 

ever, yours truly,