Sugar Mountain High III

It was a normal day. How shall I describe it? Better yet, why don’t I get you to read ‘To kill a Mockingbird’ by Harper Lee, to obtain a feeling for the day. There’s nothing specific, what’s coming to mind is a day with Atticus on the porch, his white jacket draped over the wicker chair after a long day, a cold glass of water on the table. It was that sort of day when Pedro came round to our circle.

We’d been doing everyday kind of stuff, listening to the radio, talking, reading. It was an elliptical sort of day; I mean a day when the earth merely rotated on its axis one more time, without any bumps or mishaps, or comets streaking across the sky. The hours neither stretched not shrunk, but stood their guard. It took an hour, no more, no less, for the clock to tick from one to two.  When I say that there will be time enough to check the time, I am speaking of another ‘time’, perhaps, than the one one normally encounters. A personal time, established by your own metabolism, maybe. Or perhaps it is not so banal.

Yet, there were days to come when time became a personal matter, much like one’s thoughts. What I mean is a certain element of randomness crept into time, so that it seemed akin to the stream of consciousness. A haphazardness. No more than that I cannot say. I can barely glimpse it from the corner of my mind’s eye now, the feeling of being buoyed about in the mysterious swellings and lulls of temporal elapse.


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