Images after Wine Induced Slumber

I live near a Buddhist temple. Each afternoon at 5 p.m. the Monk grabs the rope of the soft wooden log bell hammer and gives it a mighty swing. The hammer hits the temple bell and the sound echoes throughout the nearby neighborhoods. The sound of the bell chases away evil thoughts and spirits from the mind.

For me, it reminds me it’s time to uncork a bottle of wine for an evening of alcoholic induced creativity.

I spent the afternoon at a friend’s house. He lives in a dilapidated old shack alone. Well, not exactly alone. The cockroaches and an overweight rat keep him company in the evening. I always make a point of visiting before noontime and leave well before the sun disappears behind the horizon.

My friend is a year or two older than me, which makes him an old man. His past memories fill up the emptiness in his present life.  “Remember Arlene? Remember her friends? Remember how we spent days trampling around the mountain side in the rain?”

I remembered Arlene. She was the only one who came prepared for rain. The other women are vague images. Like the faceless images in dreams.

 

He served me lunch of cheese sandwiches and salad. I shoved the salad to the side of the paper plate when I discovered a cockroach struggling to free itself from the salad dressing. “Gotta go,” I said unceremoniously.

I hurried toward Landmark Tower in order to find a place to recover after the trauma of finding one of God’s creatures trapped in the viscousness of a concoction he called salad dressing.

My mind went around in circles until I managed to get away and walked  to Motomachi. All the while, I kept remembering the bird in the garden of my brother’s house. A massive bird, heavy and virtually immovable. I remember my brother telling me I had to keep both feet solidly on the ground. Like Big Bird.

Easier said than done. How can I keep both feet on the ground when most of my friends  live in different universes. Nadine, for example. She refuses to wear clothes. I discovered her sitting without a stitch on a stool outside a bakery on the back street of Motomachi. “For goodness sakes, Nadine, can’t you at least wear a sweater?” She ignored me. “Go away,”she said. “Nobody’s complained yet.

I left her and decided never to speak to her again. No, I would focus on non-human companions. I discovered a boulder with a dynamic personality.  Who needs a human being for a companion?  The boulder was wired much like humans are wired to their smartphones.