What a time to be alive! A time when few if any really have any firm grip on the true nature of their own reality. So many look for a place of safety to harbor there lives but so often find a barrier of mischief making that precludes finding one. The search for even one’s own truth too heavily veiled in multiple meanings like backstops upon a theater stage. A false continuum of regularity that suggests a universal lie that there is a consensus. The hawk to the squirrel, the wolf to the hen, the dragon to the knight. Predator and prey fighting in what is loosely deemed the imagination. The real contest occurring outside what is considered rational but is so much more real than what is ascribed as real itself. Run and hide from it if you will! Or stand and fight and be torn asunder only to awaken into its world once again the next night to service this same choice afresh. Dark alleys and empty corridors with the presence of something angry and raging ever near.
People give up on you after a while. Nothing ever resolved. It’s the same old story where nothing new ever happens! He was in a terrible funk. His mood over the last few days as downcast as the unseasonably cold weather outside. The facts despoiling his fantasy of setting his life aright in light of the old way he was accustomed to having gone awry. His station in society having fallen through the roof of the newly burned French cathedral. The enemy was at his gates and his slings were out of commission and he was all out of arrows. His residence now fallen into the abyss within the belly of Sheol. If anyone needed a definition of Hell then they need not look any further. What other narrative would do I need to lay across my own? Self-image and self destruction. To draw upon the past there has to be a mutually respected past tense to draw upon. Destroy one’s public persona and they are left with overwhelming actions to persuade others. Or conversely to recede into ineffective anonymous invisible non-entities. The second option being the most chosen in these current times. The threat of those scrubbing bubbles of administrative social detergent if they catch on to the former threatening to apply overwhelming force to negate it. The art of survival in our Orwellian age is not taking either scenario too much to heart.
The man on the coach of the public transport appearing out of place. Everything about him being a paper doll mismatch of items that might have been claimed by three separate different types of characters. A brand new business suit a size or so too large. The pants cuffs of the same exposing old over-worn zippered ankle boots. A brown leather rucksack the strap of which being a worn bandoleer across the chest compressing the blue woolen tie so hard as to protrude like a second tongue from above the waistcoat. Nerdy dark plastic frame eyeglasses upon a head that looked like a bloodless slab of fat enriched beef. The entity within quite obviously maintaining an unsure stance stretched across several worlds each of which did not fully accept him.
This funny edgy morning of serial disappointments in doubtful alternate cuisines and diverted possibilities pointing one towards the worst of circumstances. The subtlety of the underbelly exposed to the randomness of subsidiary behaviors of unfamiliar strangers. The human form losing its panache turning to a nondescript lumpy approximations of collective crowd consciousness. The U.K. lad at the next tabled behind the bulk of his girlfriend in-between looking lizard-like above the plate just below his chin. Busily bending those hometown Midland’s vowels to an extreme. This host buildings architecture enclosing us speaking silent volumes of so many immediately identifiable familiar significations enjoyed by former generations that once ruled long past. Nothing like those old days of, “Pardon Me!” and “Excuse Me!“, when you can knock over some arthritic old fellow’s stick and not just obliviously pass by. A certain degree of inherent ability in unconsciously prognosticating future events by drawn imagery. Events and trends in black and white on the pages of one’s own personal iconography. Can one be happy in the company of one of these equality of outcome possessed sock puppets? Those worn down fellow creatures that have been cast into fatal mediocrity of continuously obsessive consensus in all things long before approach of adulthood. Each in possession of an equivalently important personal drama no better or worse than any other! Rote everyday survival triumphing over the possibility of engaging in chaotic romance. True love deposed to the status of an occasional hitchhiker relegated to an all too short ride in one’s back seat. Their youthful follies transformed incrementally into twisted caricatures barely resembling their former physical presence in youth. That “Once and Future Kingdom”, that they were to inherit now distant and too far beyond reach having been long ago lodged firmly in stone like Arthur’s sword within the firmament of what they never could be in the first place.
Eyesight getting ever worse and working towards an imminent rendezvous with legally blind. Passing youthful feminine arrogance showing it’s absence of petticoats in defiance of everything that it has been taught but has yet to begin to comprehend. Too apparently with one’s own in a room populated mainly by prosperous malade’s. No time for self pity, just learn to adapt! That characteristic open bowed leg positioning of a lifelong cellist waiting like an alligator’s jaws for an audience to entrap. Her sex open but not to repel! Cataracts covering over morbid self perception. The low spark of high heeled clip clop foreign femmes. Others in pantomime of, “When the body’s dimensions gets rowdy the clothes draped upon it look dowdy!” Once more the silent time worn chant of, “This is the point in life where the sum total of my entire existence has led me to!” That thought interposed with an equally persuasive recycling rendition of that old Vicki Carr song, “Is that all there is?” My patent response to the diminishing indifference of others as they pass being to demonstrably laugh at them. Perhaps then to put both hands to the cheeks of may face and violently rub them exclaiming “Two Weeks!” repetitively like that large female character in Total Recall?
A step ahead of human instinct. Those culturally adept swiftly wending their way to the last of available seating past the walking wounded of the aged. A couple make their long ellipse past the center of my solar orbit to land beside me. The latest spawn of the land of Germanicus bred in the spirit of Arminius translates the inscription upon the wall for his own Asian paramour. “Deutsche uber alles macht muss ordung sein haben!” “Get your griddle cakes!“, an internal mental voice rings out. There still are hunchbacks within this cathedral crowd. “Les pobre salo!” Coming closer from a distance, “An vieux homme ancien avec bard gris e une valise d’bombe!” “Il arrive!”
A bowed ennui! No doubt derived from the silent era of flickering moving pictures. A corner on the personal narrative that it recalls but the details of which in a personal sense that otherwise cannot be but barely remembered. The subsequent selections hearkening to the same silver nitrate ghostly world long expired. That brief in-between era of inferred drama by the collective post-war humanity frozen overhead in patterns of sparkling terrazzo. All those enraptured within that short seemingly bulletproof sojourn of physical beauty unaware of the quicksand of old age waiting just ahead. The low vibration of the cello summoning birds just outside the windows of this hall. The sad exclamation of my own mother just after my father died rising to my lips from nowhere that she will never be held in anyone’s arms ever again. One cough after another suddenly breaking the mood. Those susceptible to unconscious suggestion fall in line like dominoes. The high theater of personal existentialism by Ravel buttressed against the sonorous emotional abandon of Debussy. Hallowed notes and frenetic tempos. Perhaps it is true that one comes to have no other emotionally charged existence outside this hall from week to week every Wednesday? The man with the mystery of the satchel abruptly leaves his seat still carrying it. The absurdity of outrageous yips and yaps of respiratory distress breaks out yet again. The mood is once again despoiled. One can imagine the insoluble issues to be encountered in playing this music in the time of a spreading epidemic?