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In The Sky June 24, 2008

Posted by The Typist in Toulouse Street.
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Sometimes the Ipod that drowns out the chatter of the people around me in BeigeWorld drifts onto a certain song and something snaps. The the matrix of beige boxes disappears and I’m am sitting at a desk on an empty floor. The sealed windows fall away out of their frames and the cold machined air is refreshed by a breeze from high above the street stink, straight in off the lake. I toss all the papers on my desk out into the breeze and they drift lazily off toward the river. The laptop follows, riding gravity’s rainbow arc down toward Carondolet, tumbling in slow motion like the rocket at the end Koyaanistasi with the sun flashing off the screen. I follow them out the window, stepping gingerly onto the air. The feeling is like walking on the bottom of an inflatable boat: yielding and a bit unstable but buoyant. I totter out the window and slowly get my sea legs, setting off away from downtown and the Counting House toward the thin gray line of haze where the lake meets the land. As I walk I slowly descend like a character from the cartoons of my youth descending the bridge from Asgard, coming to earth somewhere in a familiar parkway beneath a particular oak tree, the one my oldest friends and I still call The Oak Tree. Cheerful California gopis bring me Belgian Ale and chilled oysters, then dance for an englamoured audience of squirrels and birds. I pull out a favorite book of poetry and the tips of the pages flutter in a cool breeze. A gopi takes the book gently from my hands and replaces it with a lit Cubano. She begins to read aloud.

And then the shrill beige telephone rings.

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