The Curious Residual Wisdom of Theodore Walsh

by Victor D Sandiego | Published: Jan 23, 2024

There we were, my spirit guide and I, on the western road without a map. And before we could transfer my residual wisdom offshore, my old hitman jumped down from a passing train and offered me a freebie.

Not today, friend. I left that life behind.

You see, all the checkout clerks know my head crashes painful cymbals. They know I have yesterday’s beefsteak but no proper platter. More, I have seven dogs and no memory of how they opened the garden gate. Far above my pay grade, in the contrails of clouds, I study the ancient art of ordinary survival, but once a month or so, a cop taps my shoulder, suggests I sign up for a tax free gunshot of hope.

Wait, I always say. I consent to the law. Thou Shall Not Kill. And besides, I still can’t tell one electrical circuit from another. All wires red. Maybe if I had a new sense of direction, I might find my home, but the evercast skies are so full of moons.

Back to the western road.

Next thing we knew, a tree fell on our path and we were forced to admit that tomorrow doesn’t have a dynasty. It’s all orphans and liquidation sales.

And before anyone called the arborists, or even the drive-through ambulance, we evacuated the avenue of conditional equality where the birds go to die.

It’s nothing new. All the papers say terror when they mean buy more stuff. All the haberdashers create a new vital hat.

What really got my burger brain busted were all the ships that appeared on the river when my newest birthday crossed another bridge. They flashed shiny fresh flags of submission in the sparkling sun, and all the sailors hopped up and sang a chorus from an old ballad I used to love when I still played with conventional ideas.

Well, I didn’t take the bait and instead coughed myself back to that dusty intersection where the blues were born.

Anyway, back to the western road. Again.

We passed the last checkpoint and finally hit the coast where I married a typewriter and my spirit guide hung a hammock in the backyard. Every so often we’d get together to compare transcripts and pop a blue cork.

These days I’m mostly immobile. Got a brand new case of no known disease and a house that spells prison backwards. Most of my family got fried in the distance with too much salt.

No complaints, though.

How could I? Lots of things much worse. Kids lay flattened under rubble, lawmakers ban odd numbered thoughts, and now they claim that books cause cancer.

At least all the masters of harmony still crawl through the cracks in my sanity, and my sight still sunsets on smoky breezes. And best of all, my old friends, the gypsy merchants of bygone magical ages who give me a lift when my legs refuse to march, still accept the expired card of my life.