(004june2 07) In The Temple Of Memory

I speak to you easily, shadowy figure in my mmeory, reliving all your picaresque adventures pulled out as from a volume on a shelf, dazzled by all the color and the drama, each episode pulling Light improbably from the dark. I follow all your travels, converse with you about the cities where you could feel forotten amid the lighted towers, then big and warm at a performance or a party in your honor. Your tale is replayed to guitar chords and whining harmonica strains, realized in pure colors and words, etched in the values painted upon the canvas of life. You move so comfortably across these horizons of the theater of memory. Yet you, who sit recalling — where you should go, what you should do, and what I can say to you, I do not know.