Perpetually in transit

Not the Wind, Not the Flag - Music Gallery
Already Dead Tapes #37

Three monks sat arguing about a flag. The first said, "The flag is moving." The second said, "The wind is moving." And the third said, "The wind is not moving. The flag is not moving. The mind is moving."

Lately, my mind is perpetually in transit. Either I'm just getting back from an expedition or just about to leave. I am hopelessly trapped in a sempiternal cycle of departing from the past and arriving in the future. When I close my eyes, I see wigwags and whistling trains.

I rub my temples quite a bit, and have discovered that it's better to do so in the shower than at the dinner table because in the shower no one asks, "What's wrong?" When Music Gallery—by Toronto's Not the Wind, Not the Flag —started spinning the other night, and the xylophones and chimes played their beatific notes, and my heartbeat aligned itself with the metronome-sounding tick-tick-tick in the background, and the 24-minute composition's formlessness became a velutinous quilt to wrap myself in, I realized I was no longer rubbing my temples and seeing trains. This was a good thing.