marox_pass_recognition fyn gula it was very hard for copello to leave the purple sea. days later when helin and he continued their journey he thought about the song of the ocean, about seagulls aloft like living kites without strings, about the penetrating warmth of the salty sun, and he felt a poignant loss, even though he had gained the valuable truth concerning forgiveness. "it was time to move on," helin said, and leaving was much easier for her because children move from moment to moment, birds lighting upon branches then flying away. where as adults try to resist, finally capitulating when reality wins. and now they were passengers on a train, a very small back-yard set-up of minature locomotives, three cars including an engine driven by an old man wearing a weezer t-shirt. there was a caboose full of black balloons, so full of helium they looked as though they could lift the train. in the middle, copello and helin sat in a car built for two with red leather seats, a turquoise railing, and brick floor. the track was circular as if the ride was solely for entertainment, as if the journey was not measured by distance(kilometers) but by what was seen or observed. because as the train moved at a little faster speed than a turtle crawling across a country road, visions appeared before the travelers, some of which copello saw in the theatre of his mind, others that were placed before them like billboards on the autobahn. there were fotos of the people who were dearest to copello, enlarged to unbelievable proportions. drawings of events copello was a participator of, attached by string to twin prop aeroplanes. "now we are young," helin said. "let us live under the sun and count every beautiful thing we see." when the train stopped, copello's face was stained with tears. he had recognized many things close to his heart and observed them in ways he never knew possible. as if the term,"taken for granted" was on the page in the cultural literacy dictionary that came loose and fell out and was stepped on until the words were no longer legible. while he sat still and cleaned his face, the old man who drove the train came out of his house actually made of gingerbread. ("tasted like it was stale," helin said, later.) his wife, who was wearing a t-shirt that said, "it's much more than being willing to forgive," followed him out to the train. helin had asked him to tattoo number three, but he wasn't about to do it himself. he was too embarressed. "now what did you want me to write, dearie?" the old woman said. she was chewing on a piece of wall she broke off the house on her way over. helin whispered it into her ear, silently hoping the old lady would swallow because her lip smacking was fucking irritating. "is that french?" the old woman asked. "yes," helin said. "it's the way fyn wants it." "fyn?" the old woman said coughing, for she choked when helin mentioned the name. "you mean fyn gula?" and she said it like a disease one gets. "yes." helin said, like she was one who had the disease, fought it, and was cured. she giggled because the old woman began writing the word on her belly. she finished about the same time copello had recovered. he read the word and realized recognition must be a daily exercise until it became unrecognized and absolutely natural like breathing while asleep. 1. bonne volonte 2. remission 3. voient 4. 5. 6. 7. "come dearies," the old woman said. "get something to eat before you go. my window shutters are especially sweet." 010826 what's it to you? who go blather from