Nine thirty five.
There’s the noise of a lawn mower to the east of my house. When I’m idle, memories crowd in and compete for my attention. Yesterday I took down the book of Charles Fort and read the front and back DJ flaps. I bought the book because I wondered where the writer and director of Magnolia got the idea for the rain of frogs in the plot. This was 23 years ago, the time that gave rise to the superstitious millennium, as if everyone had inhaled wormwood. I was simply along for the ride, though no one wants to believe in their passivity, acting roles in someone else’s play. I got a weird feeling from holding the book, with a cover showing a rain of fish on a city street. My dad had just died of cancer before I saw the same movie— also about an old man on his deathbed. A strange coincidence. The worth of the supernatural depends on how seriously we take it. Some things I can’t explain away. They refuse logical analysis and operate by their own laws, ones that humans don’t understand. Between the lines is a space unknown, perhaps lunatic but always baffling.