DayMinder

As usual, I wasn’t sure where I was repairing. 

	I’d been renting a small, furnished bedroom a few blocks east of the interstate for about six months: 

away for most of it on various adventures of universal profit & loss,

comfortably mingling with fractals of chaotic phenomena —  

familiarly starting-over here-&-there by husbanding resources & frittering elbow room.   

	Most belongings were in an outskirts storage locker. 

With just a few essential possessions, I stirred through unoccupied periods on the sublet’s hand-me-down twin, leftover from the last itinerant, holding-in stories of its own,    

embracing insomnia enough to stay up & maybe have a real discussion with all of those riled illusions. 

Baggy eyes add character, I thought &, besides, perception is suspicious. 

I wasn’t falling for it . . .  

	. . . so, I continued-on in retreat: 

divining nothing with a real-time stab at the nation’s midsection staging foggy sets of subversive reflections mocking & taunting alleged principles of disengagement,  

enough to even fly cross-realm for a blizzard of mercurial abandon 

or traverse inter-continental waves presumably yielding impromptu snaps 

preserved now as mere cliffside statues overlooking the vast span, in search of inspiration. 

What followed was yet-another manic junket, this time driven by a lyrical spiritualist, senselessly ridden out to a weary air, returning with an impulsive foreign treasure complete with a trove of performative possibilities: 

the jumbo early-70’s Stylophone 350S mini-synth — snagged in an overseas oceanside flea market & never fully utilized due to dead PP9’s & postponed idle thought

this particular Stylophone came in a styrofoam carrier decorated in faux-wood shelf paper & illustrated inside by the former owner wandering from stylus to ballpoint

	The 350S sits silently today in a closet with other gear-turned-souvenirs — obsolete, unutilized or broken, but, ultimately, too beautiful to permanently cast aside.

I ended up purchasing a smaller reissued model a few years later at a bourgeois boutique chain here in the homeland, but I still haven’t used it either — just waiting for revelation to return in any form. 

Maybe it won’t, but, at least, I’m prepared. 

Until then, I’m gonna decorate my own box, too — to document where I was, it appears, for now —  

or until the moment hits again . . . 

. . . as usual.