Crisis prone dreams speak of a crisis prone man, of so it seemed at approximately one AM in the expanding global village of nowhere, anywhere. Of course in truth the faint fading images and the stirring softness of what appeared to be their voices were hard if not next to impossible to recall. Their innocuous nature demanding a mental exercise be taken within seconds after waking or run the risk of the action surrounding same merely becoming a sharply posed reverberant echo. What was it this time? Could he discern last night from this one? His aching asshole and bladder demanded immediate relief. He had heard long ago that male gorilla’s routinely shit in their own nest. He was approaching that age when incontinence was not simply a possibility but an event to be taken with serious concern. The idea of waking up to find his own feces smeared and plastered below him due to some inadvertent action of animal relief demanded that as an urgent choice. Never trust a fart as the adage went. He could recall that the last time he had shit himself was one particularly bright cold afternoon in nineteen-fifty-six or maybe fifty-seven when he had unadvisedly run home from school and slipped on the back stairs unexpectedly. Equal parts of shock and embarrassment had occasioned a cloudburst of tears when he had encountered his mother in the kitchen. Another strange phenomena had overtaken him as he submitted himself to a verbal explanation concerning the details of his mishap. There was a strange looking steel step stool that by the fact of its vertical configuration and narrow wheelbase caused a certain sense of panic. This enhancement of his angst seemed to carry over into a strangely disconnected fear pit that seemed to expand over the subsequent years into a dislike for being placed in situations of high altitudes. The movie Vertigo which came out the year before had employed the exact same implement in one of if key scenes where the hero trips himself up while attempting to overcome his own fears and sets the tone for his own inevitable destruction.
His offering to that brownish-yellow porcelain god concluded he padded as silently as possible into the relative darkness of the small lounge and took up station within one of the two easy chairs haphazardly positioned facing the Meccas of the large flat screen TV enshrined upon an oaken shelf within the cliff-like edifice of custom built how entertainment cabinet. A fitting monument to the legacy of a William Paley, there was no doubt in the mind of its creator, this unit exemplified the sort of overblown futility that any modern urban dwellers institutionalized within their tiny vapid domicile. Something to bring a regal sort of proletariat dignity to the daily ration of the accompanying incessant commercial chatter that issued from its most protected element. It’s hulking magnificence encrusted with a shadowy collection of so many past tense forgotten mementoes stashed upon it a mental reef where the nocturnal siren sang its ever mediocre songs of get rich quick and fast fast pain relief. “Were there any good movies on”, he wondered? He carefully lifted himself up while easing the backrest of the overstuffed Barqalounger into a position of half attention. The volume had been scrupulously turned down to barely a point or two on the rocker switch of the remote as the vague dance of blue flickering imagery shone dimly across the room. “Funny how that same phenomena appeared when view through a window from the street?”, he mused, What was it that nagged him about the dream that he had escaped minutes earlier. Was it so impossible to get some rest from his own phantom demons even in the dead of night?
The world as he now took it in was an existential existence that no longer promised a future unrelieved by crushing doubt. He felt that he could no longer count upon himself to supply the vision for a path out of the self-imposed cell of his own conundrum. “Blissful mindless carefree happiness was only for children or the young?”, he thought. The descent into the maelstrom of declining years had left him sapped of purpose. A lifetime of struggle to be heard by society at large had left him shut out of any forum of demonstrable public recognition for his endless hours, weeks and months of determined effort. What was there to show for his trouble beyond an amorphous collection of digitally inscribed tales lost within the finite confines of landfill ready DVD-R’s and old computer drives. The older repositories of pencil marks on paper rotted in their own manila caskets at another unspecified location much farther away. If dust could descend to bury the vital mysteries of the ages he thought then he was surely entombed within like some proverbial Jimmy Hoffa styled avatar. The culture hated his type. Surely and demanding of the respect of being addressed politely by his last name rather than his first. An unrepentant Kulak that was holding up the ongoing revolution to an anthill driven collective of Matrix inspired Agent Smith’s that only had one thought emblazoned upon their mind when confronted with an icon bespeaking authority. “How high and how wide?” The hero of a hundred thousand squealed faces paced cross the screen before bisecting the one by one point seven-eight screen in perfect unconscious harmony with the love lines of Mr Fibonacci. He wondered how long the charms of this iteration of scrubbing spindle legged everyman’s night shade could captivate him? It seemed appalling to him to realize that he had succumbed to the worst habits that he had lambasted his own forebears for embodying. Thralls to the emptiest of game show hosts with all their bells and whistles and slide kazoo’s. The was the fate of present tense humanity he mused. To sit alone in dark rooms like some anonymous form of that ancient felon, Prometheus, and have the essence of their existence torn apart by the eagle claws of all things forgettably trivial.