goofiness comes and goes

There is a sense, in life as 2018 has rendered it for me, or to me, of having disappeared. Somehow, from existence, if indeed I/we do and it isn't a dream as I look back and think it well may have been, or someone or something's imagination, into whatever physical of us returns to dust as promised; and whatever mental of us either evaporates into the ether of the universe or simply goes out like a turned off lightbulb or snuffed candle as I think least unlikely; and whatever spiritual of us, if indeed there is such, and the mental part of me is never certain of anything, reunites, as some theologian has it and if that is so, with whoever or whatever Creator, relating obliquely to Jenson's examination phrasing, "Who or What is God?"

Who has been to this part of Earth, America, the Gulf Coast of the Florida Panhandle, knows that it is not real. Simply crossing a bridge, rounding a curve, and turning left across traffic at the first light, one enters a Twilight Zone. Peace, quiet, a feeling of European village proximity and beauty, a sense of safety, of Wealth on Vacation. One considers not returning to the apocalypse. Maybe this is how an NDE survivor feels at the end of the tunnel of Light when The Voice says,"No, you can't stay this time, you have to go back for now."

Yesterday I/we went back, and again this morning for medical appointments. In 7H, yesterday, a portrait of me, The New Ensign, brought to mind Wilde's picture of Dorian Gray. Wet, apparently soaked as on the HV roof Hurricane Michael tore a/c compressors loose and tossed them around, tearing the roof and allowing water in above us and down into our condo. The paint is flaking off, breaking loose from its canvas. 

From 1958, now sixty, it has been as much me as have been I myself since I was 23 years old. And it's proving as mortal as I. Or maybe in this dream, reversing Dorian Gray, it will turn into me and I will revert to it. 

Joe wanted to take it home to NC, but there's no point: by the time the car vibrates ten hours, 616 miles to W-S, it will be a pile of paint flakes. I know the feeling.

It doesn't matter, no matter, no worries. Here in the Twilight Zone where there is no reality, all is well.

T  

Top pic: from M's porch looking out into the ruin from the ripped out screen. 27Dec2018