And it is quite disconcerting to awaken, having gone on a lark, playing one too many games of nine-pin, to your rifle rusty and useless, the world having witnessed revolution and upheaval... and find that everything is different but you. You may set about, or lay about, or set about the business of catching up. Or you sit idly and tell your story so that you may serve as a horrible warning of sorts.
Was Rip Van Winkle a Prohibitionist's lament? That remains to be seen. I've heard no indication that this is so, but there is a chilling resonance and I shudder at the word...
ANACHRONISM
I awoke this morning from a dream missing this place, and a time. I am only beginning the process of sifting through the past, and separating the wheat from the chaff... figuring out what I need to let go of my attachment to, and what comes to the next place with me.
Moving. Motion. Change. Changing. Putting down. Picking up. Ending. Beginning. Etc.
It would be a lie to say that it was all bad, and more of a lie to say that all this change around me is uncomfortable.
I thought I remembered a part of the Rip Van Winkle story, a sequel perhaps, where he goes back into the Catskills to find the bowlers and play a few more games. It's sorely tempting some days, if the truth were to be told.
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