A New Nod to Dmitri N. Smirnov, An Old Nod to Margery McDuffie Whatley

In the past year or so, I have talked with many people who shared a specific timeframe with me.

And yet, if time does not exist, then what to make of musical scores?

What to make of past relationships that stopped but never ended?

What of the 48-year old woman with whom I shared our first kiss at 9?

Or the 49-year old woman with whom I continue to share my thoughts as if we live outside time, 18-year loops of silence between us notwithstanding?

Or the 48-year old woman who remembers our relationship at 15/16 as if it happened yesterday, repeating our relationship and breakup in emails turned into a storyline that merged into a novel just as her daughter passed through the 15/16 ageline?

These circles, so close to home, remind me of works by Smirnov and their descent/ascent keeping time.

The music in my head plays here in spaces, pauses, syllables and other symbolism familiar to you, but it is not the same as hearing it in real time.

Would your unmarried son look at a job application and interpret "marital status" as if it read "martial status"?  Does that speak volumes about looking at marriage like war?

This is the 34th day of 2011 and I have a lot to work through in the remaining revolutions of our planet upon its axis in this calendar year before it reaches its arbitrary starting place which begins 2012.

Do you know which pebbles' waves are affecting you right now?

Are you comfortably positioned in your set of beliefs?

How much do you let your social connections reposition the perceived centre of the core of your being?

If you could see the full set of actions available to you on this planet, then what would you want to do next?

I want to read a book but I don't know which author I want to influence my thought set.

I want to take a walk but I'm tired of seeing the same rooftops and neatly trimmed lawns passing by my view.

If freedom is whatever I want to do on this planet, what if it's not enough?  Too much?  Too little, too late?

Only one life to live, one narrative to attempt to fabricate, one set of moments to imagine calling my own.

Life is a jazz improv jam.

My part in it is what it is.

I'll just have to live with the fact that the music in my head has no instrument(s) that'll make it sound right to everyone who listens.

Practice makes the next practice more perfect - the perfect story has never been told because it requires knowing the music in everyone's thoughts, virtually impossible, at least at this time.

Approximation is the best we can do, cutting the distance to perfection another half-step closer.

If I can't have the whole thing, will half of a half of a half of a half of a half suffice?

Three more points: census data, space stasis, education status.

Thanks to Margery McDuffie Whatley's recorded performance for accompanying this blog entry.