There is an art to creating a mix tape, more so to day, when tape is usually only found in museums and antique stores.
Then you chose carefully aware of the sonics, aware of the limits on time, weaving a musical tapestry.
You can do a mix CD but everyone knows that with tape you listened all the way through, for fast forward was only for getting to the end of the cassette to play the B-side, and CD’s have no B sides to play.
Many say that the end of the world is upon us, that we will all be replaced by electronics, but of that I have no fear, for electronics may claim to be smarter than we are, but if you’ve ever tried to interconnect or network them, you know that half of the time they will fail miserably and even in those rare cases where they work initially they will soon enough fail.
So I think I will live on, keep pad and pen at hand, and just for safety sake, a box of candles and matches.
In the interstitial moment between birth and death a universe comes into existence, something that never before existed and existed always, new and well-known, unseen and visible for eternity.
Measure it well for it is incapable of measurement, and ends without warning and precisely on schedule. In the momentary breath that marks the transit, we proceed nowhere and cannot return to where we began.
They finally used the word or one near enough to it and she was not surprised, she almost welcomed it. You can grow jealous of those with a depth of faith that a sentence of months or perhaps less is received with grace and a smile, a nod and a statement “I’m more than ready to go home now, back to my husband.” I hope I will show such equanimity when I am told my time is quickly drawing to an end, but I am left with great faith in myself, and that may not suffice as I prepare to slip away into oblivion.
My grandson has a smile that is as old as time itself, as young as the mind of a four-year-old and in this moment, beaming, I am left to guess which it is, for he won’t say, and so I smile with him and time has no meaning, no beginning, no end.
There are a group of them who stare at the sky knowing it is coming launched on its course at the beginning of time which has no beginning. Some say it will be soon others are less certain when but all accept without question its inevitability, and wonder what will remain in its aftermath, seas evaporated, continents blotted, it is easy I tell them, there will be a freaking big mess for the roaches to clean up.
imagine these words written end to end, each well known but the order setting this apart, in a long single line with a half twist Moebius-like, and not on a page but a band like life nothing discrete a continuum each word the only word each moment the only moment if you wish
The last time we spoke you asked me when the end was coming. I didn’t have a good answer for you, wasn’t even quite sure what you meant by the question, the end of what? Of time, of your life or mine, or merely the end of a conversation we had been carrying on for as long as either of us could remember. That was some time ago and I have thought about your question quite frequently and seeing you today, you walking by me without acknowledging me, I realize the answer should have been and most certainly now is that the end came the moment you started your question.
Musicians have a clock that runs on its own time and all that is constant is the beat, in four second increments. They start, they say, when the music is ready, never before and music is fickle: tonight it wanted to sit off stage and rest an hour, another night it begins precisely as advertised and it ends, always and invariably, after the last note plays itself.