Once, a really long time ago, I discovered that the universe makes
no sense. I made me feel funny inside, like that uneasy feeling you get when you eat too many
Christmas oranges. That sweet
acid burning in your belly, so festive yet so strange. Your guts are swimming in
Middle Eastern sunshine, grown in the oily sand of a tortured land, just in time for
Christmas.
No.
These are Morrocan oranges. Play it again
Sam.
I wonder if the guy who wrote
Casablanca ever traveled to Morroco. I smells like a script stacked up like
matchsticks, each little nugget culled from dogeared
Time magazines from before the
war. How many people have actually watched the
whole movie? I've never seen more than clips on retrospective shows. The people singing the French
national anthem were crying real tears.
I would cry for France too, if I loved
her. I know a few girls named
France. I don't love any of them, but maybe I should.
India is another
country-girl name, but you never hear about a guy called Russia. It's all girls called
China and
Belize. Girl names, like ships.
I saw
oreship in the channel, churning the blue water behind it green. Someday it will be
obsolete, all million tonnes of it. Will it remember being useful? Will I remember being useful? I'm designed to become obsolete too.
I don't want to haul ore. I want to
fly. Does metal have a memory? Can the change in my pocket remember when it lived in a
star? Everything heavier than
iron came from a dead
star. So, the things lighter than iron can have existed from the beginning of time.
Wow.
I like how sucking a balloon full of
unburning star fuel makes your voice high, like a
Smurf. Does the sun have a
helium voice?
Do you know?
I don't know.