Call me Boz. That’s what my friends do. It’s short for Boris Oswald Zielinski. Now you see why they call me Boz. It is an annoying name perpetrated on me by practical jokers called parents. Like the great Dangerfield, I get no respect.
Now that we’ve been properly introduced there’s no sense in holding back . . . We might as well dive into it. It is a morning like any other—a moment of anxious reflection. Even, yesterday seems long ago. The future happens with each succeeding instant. It is a mirror hanging by a thread like the looking glass of the ancients. We all want to know the future. My thoughts riff in A minor. Mirror, mirror! And now I’m gazing into a pool of ink in the hand of an Egyptian. I inspect the liver of a lamb on the Khyber Pass and turn to catch my own reflection in a Polynesian’s waterhole or the Apache’s quartz. The huille-che of the Shuar, the water-skin of the Zulu like the Inca’s crystal is a soothsayer’s window to the future. The Afghan’s poppy burning on hot coals apes the owl of Nostradamus.
It’s a beautiful bright blue sky day… I’m not impressed with myself: hungover, red-eyed, clueless, and yet curiously unwrinkled, as if blessed Time, the Almighty, that eternal unknowable, were still considering my fate. Steely-eyed Time is holding out for more evidence before it drops the blade. Destiny is yet unfulfilled. Eyes reveal the slow blue shadow of the soul. Eyes that speak. Eyes that see. Eyes that tell. Eyes that reflect outwardly, inwardly the present sum and prospect of a life. The past, the present and the future are merging. I am entering into a trance, marooned in June, far away from everything I know, and yet, close to the things I am learning. The curve is extending into the future into the seven layers of the universe. Today is my birthday, the longest day of the year. Today, something is going to happen—or tomorrow. Something always does. There are adventures ahead. I have only to wait.