Memory is a potent anchor into the future. Here’s a raw boat anchor in the form of a note in my paper notebook. My daybooks stay fast and make me the Earth axis just as any text or image or mind floater can be the same for you. Paper anchors.What are you anchored to?

I realize that this is a raw blink of thought from the hoboes of the streaming rail of consciousness.  They are box cars tagged and then gone if we do not note them and take note of them and make note of them.

The question remains–do we play on?  That is, the question remains until it doesn’t, ceaselessly being asked and answered until breath and thought expire. As Uncle Walty said,

 

Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
Out of the mocking-bird’s throat, the musical shuttle,
Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child leaving his bed wander’d alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
Down from the shower’d halo,
Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they were alive,
Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,
From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,
From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
From the myriad thence-arous’d words,
From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
A reminiscence sing.