Page 11 - The Myth and the Moment

Morning

future, in the middle of newly-drained real estate, and start all over
again.
So, what’s the moral? Maybe it’s the biological imperative: cast
your seed forward in time, life must survive your personal death.
Altruism on the grand scale, coinciding with selfishness by the
progenitor; the species’ interest served by one member’s asocial
needs. So, once I launch my little ark, I can somehow go back to not
giving a damn. Not about this edition of intelligent life. Earth
remained a pleasant place/Until there came the human race—how
does it go? Forgetting my own poems. Use it or lose it, Nate. Ah, but
that’s the beauty of my plan: I don’t have much, but I can lose it all in
some sort of state of grace. A new personal myth for a failed old
bum? Why not? A poverty of vows leading to a vow of poverty and
absolute bliss. No difference between the Buddhist master wreathed
in silent smiles and the skid-row derelict grinning in dementia.
Ah, Sunset Boulevard, where the sleaze meets the breeze. Now I’ve
got to look out for Maracanda. Up we go, old truck, into second gear:
don’t gnash your chipped and snaggled teeth at me, I’ve got you in
my clutch. Yuk-yuk. Oh, please try to act serious, Nate. This is
Trousdale Estates, home to Mafioso, ex-presidents, and Oriental
potentates alike, the pinnacle of parvenus. There are probably more
killer Dobermans per square mile up here than anywhere else west of
Deutschland. Houses are pretty new; all postwar, therefore nitwit
architecture and shoddy construction. Here’s Maracanda: goes right
to the top. Ugh, into first gear. These people must replace their
brakes and transmissions once a year. But, what the heck, they can
afford it. 9627, 9631, 9635. I’d better back into the driveway; can’t
count on this hunk of junk to do anything but roll straight down the
hill when I leave.
Emergency brake engaged, leave it in reverse; put the key in the
pocket. If I tell myself I’m doing these things, then I must have done
them, right? So, even if I can’t remember having done them in twenty
minutes, at least I’ll be able to remember telling myself I did them,
right? Maybe. Mnemonics are supposed to hook one real object onto
another, bypassing abstraction. Never worked for me; hate to bypass
abstractions. Okay, now what? Hodges didn’t say what the problem
was, so what do I carry in there with me? Got to take something, or
they won’t know who the hell I am. All right, the telescoping pole

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