The Bar at the End of the World
Tisa’s Barefoot Bar, only a short drive from Pago-Pago, is a place to escape the rain and gather coconuts.
Perhaps only ashes remain.
I’ll have another piña colada, please.
The bar at the end of the world is a real place, that much I’m sure of. As one infinitesimally minor node in a myriad of conscious, thinking beings, connected to each other in real-time through smartphones and other mirror-like devices, my rule of thumb is that everything I can imagine is real — because I imagined it, and because it’s way too hard to keep track of things otherwise (in the greater scope of things, I’m not all that bright). Think for a moment of the sheer density of the combined realities being constantly manipulated by the script-writers whose logic is somehow directing the whole shebang. Not even they can take it all in. Which means that anything I can imagine within the confines of my tiny individual cranium exists in more magnificent and colorful form, somewhere — maybe just over the horizon. Oh, yes, it’s out there. The horizon is the limit of our vision, and a marker of infinitude. Close your eyes and the horizon will still be there, signifying the sum of the …
