God's Origami

Hard to know what the trigger will be.

Smells have a good track record; touch too. Sometime it will be a visual prodding, others, music.

This morning, those abstract tetris pieces slotted with a thousand more un-named but just-as-important sisters and brothers and voila...

A person.

Somewhere between a friend and a colleague. Top of the escalator, we launched into war-stories and biographies fished from fifteen years ago. *He* was the trigger, and the effect, as always, was magical.

Eye contact, uncomplicated handshake and shoulder squeeze; when I retracted my hand, he came with it - or part of him. Paper now, his shoulder; used to being covered in identity management garb - skytrain attendant; double breasted Mossimo suit purchased for pleasure (and baptisms); road trainer hugging the pecs and landscape of a middle aged body. This though, was the shoulder. Clothing agnostic. Wasn't that it was garbed or ungarbed; that layer was simply irrelevant.

Stepped back with the paper shoulder between my thumb and forefinger and pulled, like unwrapping a Christmas present, where the gift is space.

Made a crease and brought the shoulder down to his left foot, then pinched the foot and brought it back up to the head. He kept talking, and I; replying.

Next, the other shoulder, then two final folds up till just the head was there. Finally, tucked the head into the envelope I had created, popped it into my Goretex jacket, and was off.

He grew roots on the walkcommute in, papering the interior with translucent onion paper that allowed all of our shared history to leach through and be relived;

smells of a pantry; choppy waters and heaving hulls; safety instructions and seasick fares; tap dancing gone wrong, and above all: laughter

now, computer-side, the interior paperwork has been enveloped as well and tucked inside his.

Later, tonite, I will stand in front of the mirror and fold myself in and over, over and in, till I'm pellet sized; perfect for ingestion inside *that* sheath, where I will be the fodder for dreamscapes and almost forgotten grass sidewalks and wolves and music and other dispensations.

There will be some reticence, of course, to take this in, take this *all* in, until I review the day through the lens of my monogrammed serotonic conundrum, and realize that he was folding me, as I folded him.

And that all That, came from THIS:

borders without boundaries; meanings without context; ghosts of ghosts of space.