Reconstruct your mud hut with notes from a concerto.
Philip Glass?
Yes, you like his style his style his style.
A quick recap?
I think not. The sun has moved, and left no forwarding address.
Of course, we can examine the damage
but that won't change anything.
You've been relegated to imitations of life.
This is where we're at, my friend.
It's called moving on.
You've got the U-Haul and the shepherd's pie
and enough Willy Lomans to fill Ebbets Field.
But it was a good day in Flatbush, yes?
You Are There was being shot.
With Walter?
Navigators had been flown in to reconfigure watering holes.
Back to Nature placards everywhere.
Marilyn kicking a soccer ball.
And you thumbing a ride to the next Station of the Cross.
Wait, you're mixing metaphors.
OK, so I mix metaphors. Could be Bensonhurst.
You spend your days in an adjoining room,
courting free associations.
Hopefully, getting my bearings.
I try to avoid that usage.
Irrelevant, as far as the polloi are concerned, Your Honor.
The question remains, just how far?
I'm way off the beaten track, wherever that it.
But that's what we want, yes?
All the way from Flatbush to the Pine Bush to the Pine Barrens.
And then some?
Yes, you'll find yourself within every evergreen.
Will I know it's me?
Probably not, but keep moving and they will come.
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| Ebbets Field Opening Day 1913 |