Jim is in a state of flux, shifting, flitting, from stamen to pistil, to mortar and pestle. Everything in his life boils, boils, boils, til an essence is distilled, an essence that’s essential, an importance that’s unimportant and important at the same time, like a bird on the wing that’s wingless, making it up as it flies, in a sort of Memphis half-step of undulation and toodeloo-voodoo, and while Jim waits like a mongrel vagrant, like somebody trapped in a Mel Brooks movie where they are sleepwalking and sleep-waking, hithering and dithering like an unambivalent doppelganger, the kind you might see in an out-of-business establishment, grown men rolling down Main Street in broad daylight, polyester imaginations and calico clocksprings, thinking about Jim’s covered music sheets with almost unintelligible scribbling, taking his dessert with him and screaming, “Come everybody! Let’s see what this sounds like!”