Alphabet Soup

Upward drizzle from the train to the platform to the escalator to the causeway.

The Muse or one of her cellmates has obviously set up shop here:  a causal bunker,  well protected. She's torching passer-bys with creative fire.

Most of the commuters' suits are unreasonably fire-proof,  but not mine.  I'm burned to ashes and am rising again before I even know what's hit me.  Under my left arm,  The Book.  In my right hand,  a set of golden tongs.  Over my eyes:  nothing.  Everything is shining and new and waiting to be discovered.  Undulating fields of love as I see what everybody else has become,  and what I can do about it.

They're all letters:

Commuters come personalities come images come words come letters.

There's a pattern here,  but it's in the fact that there IS no pattern

The lawyers,  accountants,  programmers,  construction workers,  Baristas,  hangers-on,  applicants,  daycare drop-outs, businesswomen, bankers,  analysts and traders...

...all reduced to a single letter each.  Nothing to do with their profession;  many aren't even english:  Hebrew,  Sanskrit, Greek, Aramaic, French, Spanish, Slang, Graffiti...

my personal Tower of Babel Buffet.

There are no seconds here,  however -  all firsts;   even the same letters shine differently as I pluck them with my trusted tongs and put them into the book.

It's mechanical at first,  I pick and choose who should go in,  then relax into an almost random sweep,  then a  fully fluid pick and grab.

The book flips pages as it fills,  and even seems to be indexing itself.

The Muse is waiting at the exit,  cigarette in hand and absurd pocket watch dangling from her waist jacket pocket.

"You like?"   she seems to ask as she takes the book  opens it *exactly* in the middle,  and watches as a visual cacophony unfolds itself - up into thunderheads,  then splitting and folding and splitting and folding in on itself, then spraying everyone in sight with chains of God,  anchored in the The Book.

With that,  she says a word,  the crowd moves as one,  and she skis through the lobby,  out the door,  and through the downtown streets:

Creativity, pulled by God,  through the noosphere and further.

God bless the Muse, and her Alphabet Soup.

Namaste.