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Do You Remember The Future, Dr. Memory? December 19, 2009

Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, Odds&Sods, Toulouse Street.
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Three years since I wrote the post below, back when Wet Bank Guide was the main blog and this was the place where I could hang out my weird to air out in the shade, when Toulouse Street was a musty corner of the Internet frequented by Google spiders and no one much else and it’s election time again and I can’t think of anything better to say that what came out December, 2006, my thoughts trapped in this circular calender of purple, green and gold waiting on the advent of something miraculous but settling for the same streetcar that passed by an hour a day a month a year ago.

Can’t you show me nothing but surrender?
The ancient morality play, perfected beyond rehearsal, draws the largest crowd around the mummers wagon on a rumpled avenue: puppets and shadow characters built by our grandparents. Paintless and sagging facades backstop the stage, ill lit by a gravity-challenged lamp that casts shadows of the rats that worry the wires. Down the block comes dollar-colored motley hoisting its tin crown in the black parade, and the king lays down his crucifixion comic and calls the loser’s camp with congratulations. The news dissolves the audience into waring camps tossing empty bottles of Abita and Olde English at each other until a shot rings out and everyone scatters. Blue lights and horses parade down the street announcing Its Over and we retreat into the bars. In the comfortable ashen darkness the Lord Mayor and the Archbishop conspire separately to tear down the cathedral of the lakefront to better resurrect Ranch Lawn Acres. Across town the lucky bicker over the location of the towers they would build in their own image to ring the high ground, but the bloody-handed carpenters are all babbling around the taco trucks and the engineers are all practicing their Spanish in Austin. Beyond distraught, I blow my roll on a bottle of forgot I can’t quite finish. I call for a U-boat rescue but settle for a passing White Fleet while dreaming of a long ago Rasta Rocket V-8 ride home with a glove box spilling splibs into my lap. Potholes rock me gently to sleep.

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