all the things we are….

the first thing i heard on the radio after checking my e-mail today was “all the things you are,” a song by jerome kern. this is/was still part of the 357 hours of benny goodman. i think there’s still about four more days of this (though i did take a two-day rest).
the version above is by serge gainsbourg and not the one i heard this morning.

one of the best versions, however, is the one by artie shaw and helen forrest. that’s the one that made me realize i might’ve glinted in and out of someone else moments at another time while traveling to and fro from here to there from now to then, just like the signpost a little bit of me may have noticed as i zapped by on “the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth-dimension” at one time or another, or maybe all the time forever.

when you’re atomic and molecular it’s pretty hard to keep all the info in order but it’s not especially important once you get the expanding universe as your skateboard park.

thank goodness it’s not a prerequisite to “being” once you get off this planet.

while i’m still here, in between the times that i’m elsewhere, i sure need that connection.
this might have had something to do with how important it was to find that my dear friend came back from making that broad arc into the outer reaches of what lies behind and beyond that dark and mysterious place that controls the tides, that place where intergalactic card games are played and where the grifting lizards from mars set up their first earth currency-weigh station back in the infancy of scams, stupidity and greed when the mesopotamians, egyptians, greeks and romans were getting “great advice” by the earliest of galactic con-artist dining on a gamier, albeit still delectable, human diet that had an extraordinary sense of their own divinity.
“that was the hook back then,” or so i was told by the eduardo cianelli-sounding lizard guy who looked like omar sharif on my last visit to the beach.
“they dined on all sorts of mediterraneans back then. wherever there were conquerors, rapers and pillagers, so we went,” he said.
i thought of my conversation with ginger rogers. “a girl’s gotta eat.” so do martian lizards.
“were you among them?” i asked.
“what do you think?” he answered. his answer me shut up for some reason.
he went on, “we hit paydirt with the romans and parlayed that when the christians began to consolidate power. for us, the holy roman empire was christmas every day.”
those lizards are a riot.
according to the eduardo cianelli-sounding guy who looked like omar sharif, those were the golden years for them. as good as it’s been the past couple of centuries, nothing compared to the absolute centuries-running gorge-a-thons that ran over europe, the middle and far east in the first millennium of the julian calendar.
but earth’s earlier food-chain history isn’t what i wanted to talk about today though it creeps up often enough when i watch the news or PBS stories, like the one last night about pakistan.
not a happy place and a perfect opportunity for mega-mass murder with both sides being completely, one-hundred percent right.
whew.

i can be so affected by things without knowing how it happens.
this is why i know what i know and how it was revealed to me by all of these strangers who know me so much better that i know my own self.
maybe i’m just stringing this together for my own purpose and there’s no connection to anything at all and it’s all coincidence and the weave of time and space i speak of is merely a sense of grandiose wishful thinking that might just keep me sane or keep hope alive for reasons i knew in the future but somehow forgot yesterday.
in my shopping journey for the store today, i picked up lunch at the italian deli (see “pork stores” on blog) i frequent.
the eighty-six-year-old matriarch of the business was behind the counter.
“hi ma!” i said when i saw her. i always say that.
where she would generally smile brightly and wave hello, instead she walked out from behind the old, white porcelain counter and hugged me, pressing her hand to my cheek and my other cheek to her cheek sweetly, then stepped away….beaming.
i don’t remember having ever made such a connection with my own italian grandmother.

i like to believe she got a message, beamed out from you-know-where to send this to me from somewhere, to tell me it was ok.
nothing like cosmic reassurance from a pork store.
i like to believe her hard drive picked up on the sputtering wind-down of my own, noting the slight aural burning from the mission control board from the past week.
this is simply the stuff that tells you that humanity should exist, regardless of all the evidence to the contrary.

About stephen trimboli

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