sometimes you don’t.  You don’t start
over.  You don’t start with one.  You keep counting.  And you do this because you don’t know who you
are.  You don’t know who you are because
you don’t know what the world is—your place in it.  How death and dying is but another start from
where you left off.  The affluent progeny
of murmurings little in the now the ever forward protest of the past never full
insatiable always on the down low making the importunate opinions perspectives
seen where the light is blocked transmutable suzerain in all the minutes
capturing other minutes the lost found and lost again—the genesis where you
read the ending first—death bereft of sensation.  All limbo you hear the translation of a caveat.
A moment as you define it.  David stopped
counting when his father died.  When
William died.  But he didn’t start over with
one.  He had a new time signature to his
songs.  He just didn’t care…  And maybe it was the seven years.  The seven years since his divorce from Bethany.  A wound that wouldn’t heal that couldn’t heal
because of the children for they were still counting.  Still counting up.  No start overs yet.  No pause to look over past numbers.  Only the encouragement the enthusiasm for the
next number a to be to look forward to and not a child forevermore.  David saw his time and their time in the time
of his father’s and brother’s death.  The
time between their birth to Benjy growing up to be his father to Dulcinea
growing up to be her mother but a small mode of numbers compared to the numbers
counting backwards before and the numbers continuing after the wake and
funerals the question from the discord and the silence of no answer when you
leave the ones you love.  Because you leave
but you still know them.  David knew his
father his brother just as he knew his wife, and they knew him as well this
knowledge and where it passes what left David wondering and how a rational
nature a social being reflects on this our time in a world in constant change
and dissolution how praise or blame falling on your ears from people passing
through your life may or may not be remembered how it is but a changing from
this to that and how little harm or good comes from blame or praise for it is
but breath that will suspire on ears that one day will no longer hear—as David
would learn from a shotgun blast a punctured eardrum in the resolutions he
sought with Maddie with Benjy’s death.  And
he said to himself:  Why do I trouble with the perturbations of this world I a man with
perhaps Christian convictions the faith the belief that something doesn’t come
from nothing and if there be a God all is well and the troubles and opinions I
think do me harm or good come from one intelligent source and all that I see
and hear will soon perish and pass away and those who have been spectators to
this will also soon perish and pass away and even the man that lives many years
into old age beyond the seventy years promised us will come to the same
condition of someone who’s died young so that all Benjy knew in his eighteen
years and what my father knew my brother I too will also know in my time and
how in all time it matters little all fame and honor and all disregard I gather
to my reputation is but bones and dust an etched engraving on some tombstone scratched
there from one hand to another one mind to another and in rain and sunshine
which wears on it after a while no one knows what the scratches mean what they
were trying to tell and it doesn’t even matter because these etchings are on something
that was once because it can die it is corruptible and how the incorruptible
can’t be is because it can never become was—the incorruptible can’t die can’t
perish and this how the knowing of love was and never is and how they that know
you but no longer love you can’t be an enemy but a forgetting of a bed once
full where now you lie still and alone and all you want is to find sleep where
in a dream it comes to you again—the knowing and the love… For then and only
then can you start with one.  Then and
only then do you grasp the number that comes next and that breathless question
answered elsewhere becoming declarative the words—come lie down beside me and
tell me what love is…