The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such. The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?
Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise. Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now, wherever “now” lands.
The following is just conjecture.
“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?). A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?
To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on. Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.
Look at this, so soon after their meeting.
What do you think or, what do you know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.
But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.
But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.
Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?
Certainly this too will change: a thicker, darker, more heated, densely leaved, buggy, irritating evidence of life proceeding into summer. But for now the winds blow from wherever…
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 