One wall of my bedroom, the wall facing the street, is an expansive veranda behind glass— a sort of observatory— looking out into black space and stars. The veranda moves to the left, slowly, like a moving walkway. But, actually, it’s the display within the blackness that moves. And everything seems to be moving rightward at an equal rate.

 

Emerging from within the blackness in a grand elliptical arc from left to right, as if on a conveyor, scenes from the world pass before me. Tableaux, isolated in passing pockets, glowing in ethereal shades of pastel neon— blue, violet, indigo, purple, pink, yellow, less of green, orange, red—

 

Vacation scenes/ Tropical resorts/ Cruise ships on the waters or docked at a port/ Seaside villages/ European villas/ American 50s diners/ the American highway of the 50s/ the Southwest, New Mexico, Albuquerque, Arizona/ Route 66 in its heyday/ Americana, nostalgia, kitsch—

 

And the stars, how golden, how silver, like illuminated sparkling ornaments hanging in the blackness on invisible strings.

 

A metaphor for the universe, and the endless wonder we experience— the nostalgia for that we know not— if we are receptive.

 

That we experience as children, because we haven’t yet allowed our “understanding” to confound, to refute that which is right in front of us, all around us: the Mystery. That contemporary society, with its technology and constant hustle, has blinded us to.

 

As if I were standing in some remote place on the edge of the universe, at the end of time, looking at the nostalgic career of humanity, in the guise of a grand panorama, merely an elaborate set and props, pass before me.

 



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