How do your help someone who is dying? Do you help them to find a more express path to their final destination? Do you comfort them that time enough remains to get their house in order to answer all those lingering unanswered questions? The few words remaining on the page clearly state was is expected. Yet after every attempt at solving the puzzle, one is forced to go back to the beginning to read them once again before exhausting all the possibilities of what’s new. When one’s aspirations die out a reality finally strikes that we are all spending too much energy on a past that was exclusively devoted to a past ‘now’ of those recently deceased. Perhaps the present is forsaken by some in favor of this convenient coverlet? Something familiar to draw over the head like a coffin lid to shut out the realization that nothing is left and that all that is remaining is silence? All my icons are dead and have mentally gone to rust. Ubiquitous. No longer used or useful. A collection of memories oblivious to the discussion to the point of neglect of important communication. Useless utensils no longer employed left to the great grinder of tireless chaos without.
The bar was dark and he sat inside it’s dun because all the tables outside save one had been occupied. There was a new waitress. A young Mexican whose longstanding sister in arms held court behind the bar. As she padded away, he turned to look at her and could still see the same backpack that had been worn across the border manifested in her step. Its weight upon her shoulders still lightly carried through the energy of youth. He could not help staring dead on at his own face in the mirror behind the bottles dead ahead before him. One side in shadow and the remaining side illuminated by the Sun’s wild spill through the establishment’s front windows. His own visage had been diminished from the vitality of youth into a melting mask folded upon itself with the experience of life bearing down bone white and hard in a multiplicity of unattractive wrinkles. The apparition refused to be dispelled its persistence pulling him down into the drink. The impart of the realization a good Irish sweater following its alternate task of sending his waterlogged corpse efficiently to the bottom of the the drink. There was not doubt about it that he was scheduled for an early departure.
A glance up at the TV’s and the changing iconography verified that the Hebrews had finally made their move from the limelight into the inheritors of the power over the culture with unashamed publicly televised displays that insinuated their kind of cultural perspective as supreme. Gone were the old days and old myths of anyone and the sky not standing in the way of possibility for all the rest. The glass bottomed boat now had a roof fashioned from same. A toddler somewhere behind immediately broke into an uncustomary wavering loud lament. His persistent cyclical vocalization penetrating the entire barroom. The terror belied within the infant recalling his own worst moment of childhood when vexed by a variety of pox leading to ceaseless unbearable itching and a day or two on the brink of pre-adolescent insanity. He looked back ahead catching his father’s face hounding him in the fact of his own reflection. The family curse of genes had increased in share, his own uneasy identity subsumed by the wealth of detail that had formerly been ;loudly hinted at with the application of an unwanted subset of “Jr.” by self-seeking goatherds. His own sense of hopes and dreams were derailed by the old man’s visage setting up shop within. Death had come to the meadow. The myth of an illusory ‘perfect one’ falling into the fog of self-dissipation. The vacuous house jukebox broke into a rendition of, “When the Saints Come Marching In“, arriving in this very last moment.
A single old woman was sat alone at a chair before the smallest of tables that had been his original destination before coming inside. Her solitary loneliness brilliantly illuminated by the Sun overhead leaving a stark impression to any who would look for more than a moment at its stage. She sat stabbing at her hamburger with her knife its blade pointed down under an angry fist probing for the heart of some bygone lover that had brought her nothing but disappointment. No longer a viable article to attract anything beyond the financial avarice of an empty nursing home bed the burger absorbing the momentary fury of the life to be lived alone. It’s vigorous harmony in counterpoint with her other hand’s forefinger salaciously massaging the screen of a Smartphone as if urging the buzz of some form of possible outside communication via text or email. Occasional glances towards it telling the tale that none were forthcoming.
His passive observance conducted through the intervening glass door of the bar as if he was clinically preoccupied with an experiment within a laboratory as opposed to slouched before a Bloody Mary within a drinking establishment. The knife now missing, her hand was now mopping up catsup with long snaking tendrils of French Fries, her phone hand persistently tapping Morse on the unit’s face unconsciously attempting to illicit a response. The fall of her pride inescapable to any or all that had more than a simple glance to spare. A crown of thorns signifying ‘Spinster‘ roughly pushed into the crown of her brow. “So what does happen to a woman when the beauty finally fades?“, he spoke to himself out loud. The illusions of attaining power and fame were the persistent illusions that broke through the tangled path of rapidly advancing age for the male. But what did a childless woman have to look forward to beyond the recognition of her beauty which when it fully faded condemned her to a living death of its opposite. The most legendary figures were ever fated to one day fail, tits sagging downward to the ground and asses descending to flaccid jelly. What was attractive enough to command animal embrace if no one significant left around? Those who had son’s and daughters found anchorage in the safe harbor of the continuance of their past. That ready life raft of a ritual call on Sunday from afar and the power of the pen upon a check to be sent to extend their motherly love from afar.
The woman at the table squeezed the plastic catsup bottle hard trying to dislodge its corn syrupy contents onto her plate to stand in for the sweetness that was obviously lacking in her regular existence. Her drink of choice was cola. A sugary embrace of the senses preferential to the heavier stuff being drained periodically into the man at the bar distantly observing her. He called forth on his other side for ice water from its ‘tender‘ to help buffer the effects of the second drink. But found the Mexican waitress instead. Alcohol would later mete out pain for the price of his extended muse of external introspection. Miffed by the inattention of his regular muse, he found her betwixt the rest of the assemblage serving out dishwater fantasies to the other old men that were only somewhat grayer than himself. Something seemed morally wrong to him about her so freely massaging drinks on that side of the bar as opposed to the tread of the customary runway behind it. The sudden rhythm of acapella beat of jazz instruments diverting his attention from either side conducting his down to the useless vantage point of a heavy alcoholic fog no longer supporting judgement. He lowered his sensibilities upon its soft cot slumping elbows upon the bar into cathartic muscular ticks in sympathy with the music’s tempo. Immune now to the inevitability that all their would have to one day share by themselves completely alone. Existence descending like sediments below the ice into the glass’ bottom. He beat out the rhythm with his own free hand. A life lived without interwoven shadows was after all no life at all.
It seems that the divides imposed between the classifications of sex and generations and age have become predominant as the foundation of rule of the current attempt of the global mentality of governing. After all, some entity in while or in part by the current flavor of cause and effect has to take the credit as well as be singled out for the blame? Whereas diversion from the realization of daily existence seems to predominate on all levels in the funhouse of this single solitary amusement park run by the modern hegemony of international institutions of finance that jiggle the strings, the strictures are endemic to the respective era. The mysteries of the universe however infinite completely solvable by the lexicon of direction from above who provide rubrics where the answer is filtered down based solely upon expected outcomes. If someone acts wildly then the answer is medicinal. If conflict persists than the technological superiority of warfare is categorically unleashed as political political bug spray on irrational insects. Great pains are taken to tune the mechanism of reporting to bring every infamy of insignificant scale to the properly institutionally focused popular moral sentiments that are acceptable as the only conclusion. No one is allowed an errant thought who hopes to progress beyond their mother’s basement apartment to a position of influencing a family of their own. Quite simply no one thinks for themselves.
The most common of animal influences are sublimated beneath the coverlet of cartoon character human personages spouting the same sentiments in a manner supposedly in keeping with the beast’s species based behavior. Lions can talk to lambs without hunger driven impulses to feed. Wolves can come door to door alternately to houses of straw and sticks and bricks and leave their calling cards like traveling salesmen. These half breeds rife betwixt the nightly soiree of television audiences along with morally degenerate human caricatures demonstrating all the unacceptable virtues of reprehensible behavior unequivocally demanding an audience laugh. This form of perversity rewriting the notion of inherent sin as transferred from religion into the diagnostic of incurable yet treatable disease. “Ask your doctor!”, not your priest! No one, save national politicians currently from the Left, are allowed the latitude of the display of aberrant patterns of thinking to suppose that life is not somehow a collection of misapplied impressions that naturally lead of themselves to a wholly new and unique unexpected conclusion. Everyone must be rounded up like cattle and penned in for the night.
The haphazard potential for unexpected acts leading to sexual relations must be formalized through the grid of cinematic propriety as set forth for the particular social strata. Likes must manditorily attract while opposites are rigorously shunned. Possibilities for change that go beyond useful chaos are grounds for outing from the herd and lead to social cysts of entombment being unceremoniously formed around the offenders. Everything must be explained properly within the spell check of a few well-worn phrases, “or else!” It is wonder that humans are even allowed to continue to procreate behind closed doors in an age of test tube inspired birth and state sanctified movements of social de-genderization. Suffering like desire must be appropriately doled out to the most responsible parties as determined by the politburo of the ‘corpus politique’. The improper context of every manner of sexual act is alternately praised or demonized by the daily shift of the agenda of the state. Experts must be brought in at every stage to bring the meaning of the act into the fold. Modern life, after all, is little more than constant education.
It had been a while since his father accompanied by his mother had left for the hotel. He sat behind the driver’s wheel somewhat exhausted by the length of time that he had been there serving as the chauffeur on what had been an extraordinary long trip that had left his senses deadened. The option for the part was looming and he thought about all his previous experiences and how they had for better or worse to this moment of finally appearing on the New York stage. He looked around the artifice of concrete roadways and paths subtended by metal and glass high-rises seemingly self multiplying around him. A jungle of Cyclopean dimension that his ant-like phylum seemed obsessed with erecting as part of the necessary business of prolonging the species. His mind raced dutifully behind his eyes reciting his father’s invocations one in particular of staying within the vehicle which his subconscious mentally reviewed. He had long experience from a very early age siting alone and ever vigilant in an evolutionary progression of his father’s vehicles as it had ascended from lowly Pontiac two door coupe’s to fully loaded four door Lincoln Towncar’s. That same strange sense of his disconnection with outside reality had not diminished over the decades once again re-invoked by even a few minutes of vigilance for ticket writing cops and the possible malevolence of unexpected strangers. This four-wheeled family mantle was an uneasy cloak to bear now has it had been then so many years back when he could barely peek over the steering wheel standing on the edge of the seat on his tiptoes. He was equally gripped now with an unreasonable fear that he could no longer acknowledge that if he inadvertently surrendered himself by exiting the vehicle that he would be lost to his own kind forever.
The driver’s side seat was set at its lowest adjustment setting and he lay back trying to rest as the minutes wore on. How would he fare in this part? His default sense of insecurity kept him on the topic weighing the many possibilities that the role inferred. Which of them was the right context appreciated by the management? And what would please the narrow focus of his own ego bound sense of superiority that he equally had to contend with? “Everyone had their own pet monster lurking within!“, he had confided to himself so many times since the first successes of youth had found themselves on the slippery ice of eventual age. Was he still so pretty to look at under the house lights as he had once been. Here was a question that once posed he was ever loath to respond to with anything beyond an ill fitting beard bespeaking his own brand of overly obsequious humility. It was his ongoing curse to play a part like the comedic hero within an absurdist silent film epic be caught stretched across two vehicles hurtling forth towards the juncture of diverging railroad tracks. He kept his eyes firmly closed to give his mind a modicum of rest while his ears took over listening alternately for an auditory change signaling the approach of an interloper or, hopefully, his own kin.
An unexpected silence brought him back to waking and he sat up looking out the driver’s side window to the determined approach of a youthful stranger advancing towards the car’s door. Something told him that the man would gain purchase to the vehicle’s door handle and swiftly open it if he hadn’t had the forethought to have pushed forth the inner lock fast towards the appropriate semiotic setting. His right hand awkwardly gripped the door’s inner handle as his body instinctively rocked over to the right pulling over to the passenger side as he instinctively wondered if he could shift his weight enough to prevent an attempt to wrench the portal open. The young man outside reaching forth with both of his own hands at the chrome lever. The movement of the door was slight but it caused an instant chill like an electric current to hit his shoulders. An animal fear tore through him as the fingers of his opposite hand fumbled sightlessly to find the proper direction to push at the electronic latch. There was a dispassionate sense of empty cruelty in the face of the interloper tugging out side the glass. The deadpan expression suggesting utter emotionless purpose in the man’s eyes similar to the classic description by victims of a shark attack. He looked back at the fellow wondering if he had simply conjured him in his dreams as an errant bogey man? The whole situation seemed unworldly.
“Click!“, the entire frame of the large automobile resounded electrically stimulated by the toggle’s insistence. An after the fact yank by the intruder outside testifying to his impotence to budge the door’s lock now set in place. He looked at the fellow expecting to se a hint of disappointment or angry outrage transform his would be attacker’s face but there was none. The features were as undisturbed now as they had been a few instantaneous lifetime’s ago that by the start from the attempt had peeled away like a Python’s skin. The unexpected interloper seemed to slide forth along the car realizing that retreat back into the safety of the anonymity of the streets was his only option. He just walked on like some well-accustomed predator to find better picking somewhere else.
The man collapsed back on the palanquin of the car’s driver side seat still extended fully back. He pushed his back close to it released the side lever and pulled it heavily forward into an upright position. The jumble of his own possessions carelessly strewn about within the car’s interior brought him back to his senses. He had been living within the vehicle as his prime residence now for quite some time. The past tense of his former lost existence, as it had always done, had once again infused itself into the ignoble realities of ‘now’ from its inner lair. Like a ghost, the once treasured sense of security from his restless past had once more come back to haunt.
It is the fourth anniversary of my father’s last breath. That point in time when my self-inspired demigod within was cast unceremoniously down into the world of man. A place where I find myself hitched to a fatal cart pulling me ahead. Downhill tot he river of the precipice of a mortal cliff. Who will mourn my passing? My unconscious estimation of myself a broken glass upon dust surmounted walls. My creator transformed now into a mythic presence. He visits me at night alone and neglected. His weary form sleeps in my bed as I now sleep in his. This is what I aspired to in life and now find myself condemned to regret in death. By the standard of the shadows in my empty universe he was a giant and I but a single pea. The center on my universe with his paramour my mom that I found myself revolve around. But a fading memory subservient by exhaustion brought on by dead end jobs. Who am I to wonder since I too have had my time. Indolence in the lap of a mental luxury that we were all exempt from the ravages time. If it had to be lived all over I still cannot mange what might have been changed? We are all carved from the same ivory scraped clean of flesh by the weather’s indifferent vane.
If the human race lives for its dreams then why are mine so particularly unfulfilling each night? This is the question I ask each morning if I can summon the stamina to recall the little bits and pieces that aren’t flushed down the nearest trans-dimensional wormhole back to where they no doubt came from. Femme fatale’s and endless treks through abandoned cityscapes populate this universe some of which infuse bits and pieces of former earthly experience. Perhaps the backbone of my essential character is exposed in all the flawed interchanges most of which seem just a rite of passage through as opposed to a discernible end. This boat of mine not to unlike that of the fabled Sindbad, save that his monsters were much more fun and awe inspiring than my own are. Some say that the world nested deep in the confines of sleep are naught but a barometer for one’s waking life. If so, then unlike the many frequent publicity campaigns for Freudian viewpoints, I did not want to fuck my mother over my father’s dead corpse.
Instead this silent undetectable quest being more aligned with a Johnny Lee ballad of misdirection of one’s affections. The femmes that I have run into always being at fault of not living up to that one required touch of Venus or the exclusively nighttime version of Gilda. The fault for this not in my stars so much as too many Hollywood epics or television advertising, sixties exploitative publishers, or the darker more perverse contemporary alleys of the Internet. The crime being the continued abstraction of human interaction by the intercession of these social organisms. At least, if I were the prototypical social scientist that my own Precambrian ‘belle epoque’ of the displacement of American individualism with social Marxism would expect, I would sign on to these conclusions. But then in a world with too many freely available answers to eternally insoluble questions it might be foolish to too quickly jump aboard this train of thought. Maybe one’s lifestream is hopefully awash in the continuum of energy flow of the vastness of the a google’s worth times a trillion anomalies of energy repressed eddy’s struggling to rise into consciousness from the eternal ‘nu’ of lifeless ether of the infinite reaches of space? In other word’s the notion of my own control of same remaining ever hopeless.
If you want to tyrannize or scapegoat for the benefit of your own gain then declare yourself a longstanding victim. When directly confronted about the unfairness of this posturing then immediately get angry to the point of violence. If your aggressiveness is overcome by your protagonists skill at self-defense either physically or intellectually then you must immediately chime that the outcome perfectly demonstrates your original point vindicating your own claims without any further question. If you are a right thinking Jew than you carp about some ancient Pharaoh who may or may not have once existed along with an equally mythological savant while annually celebrating the genocide of another host society that wasn’t to your liking. If you align yourself with the color ‘black‘ you bitch and moan and get outraged about anything ‘white‘ or connected to same because some of your ancestors got the wrong end of the stick while ignoring that situation was historically (w)righted by the actions of two and a half million old school ‘whiteys‘ who a hundred and fifty or so years back put their lives on the line to effect a real sense of “CHANGE.” If you are a woman, you swim about in a pool of a constant menses of dissatisfaction complaining about why all the ‘good men‘ are gone from the planet replaced with either brainless macho ‘dicks‘ or lisping ‘momma’s boys‘ both of which the majority of you boss around in dead end middle management jobs while jealously ogling the last remainder of hunter predator males who remain in control of the top slots of carnivorous power mad Capitalism. Those who send their phalanx’s of corporate lawyers to surround and capture the public trust or government and the public thoroughfares of everyday commerce and international broadcast play the bunch of you like an old time fiddle. These are the little jewels of existence that sustain both us and the ‘pearly wisdom’s’ of headlines and the entertainment of the day.
This system works so well that when your pampered grandchildren occasionally put down their games controllers or mobile phones miffed because the hot pockets have run out in the family fridge while a newly disenfranchised bunch of the ‘biggest losers‘ cross the border or set down piecemeal in one of the nation’s largest ‘air hubs‘ fresh from the destruction of their old culture by the same international organizations that make domestic daily existence hell. Then of course everyone is directed to take shelter under the comforting myths of the age of “Making a Difference” and “Global Warming” and taking any means of physical survival away from the majority of those with a lingering sense of personal initiative to independently manage their own lives without the constantly insurgent manipulation of an overbearing anonymously ruled cartel that most confuse with a government. One has to ask that in the last fifteen thousand year of mankind’s officially documented myth of evolutionary progress how anyone before us and the last “Good War” was able to even button up their own breaches much less build pyramids and continually conquer vast tracks of their rival’s backyards with flint knives and copper cleavers?
No, the ‘truth‘ is that only by the modern religion of ‘TECHNOLOGY & SCIENCE‘ can we conquer all our species ills by the growing complexity of devices both physical and of the mind that smash everything to atoms while producing byproducts that inevitably leak out of the can to poison the neighborhood for the next billion or so years. If I could get my dream job in the perfect Hollywood of the mind then I could suspend your own belief as well as my own that this is the biggest ‘bunco‘ scheme of all time where little Star Wars’ Yoda’s have been running about for millennia artfully bamboozling the human population with their storytelling convincing alternate generations that ‘gold is lead‘ and then ‘lead is gold‘. Thank God (if there ever was one!) that we are a nation where everyone can still afford (by getting deeper and deeper in debt) to go outside (and pull out their cell phone) to shop and enjoy what a great place (without the burden of recalling the recent past) this is to still find decent bargains (of knockoff goods made in the faraway sweat shops of the third world)! And of course chant, unashamedly, “Diamonds Are A Girl’s Best Friend!“
The tension was killing him. The accumulation of all his many failures in both business and personal relations. The loneliness of no longer having familiarity with anyone expressing unsolicited affection or concern. No man may have been an island but he had failed to get a drink of water from Diogenes’ cup. Despite all he felt inside, it was not the human race who had failed but his own misapplied nature. Tomorrow would be the same because of it. And all the earthly tomorrows that would come to pass thereafter. Whether he died physically or in the sense of the capacity of any further human emotion. Death of his physical being had awakened him for three nights straight. A curious phenomena wherein he would awake with his heart unexpectedly racing. The context of an active dream state completely unconnected with this phenomena. The arrow placed within the fact of a failing heart. To taste the last whiff of life let me laugh my last breath.
In a nut shell, I had had it. What commonality did I possess with the rest of humanity. The holy grail had orbited by out of reach long ago. The estrogen fantasies of prince charming had found me wholly indifferent and thus wanting. The universe would be there int he morning even if I was not longer in material form. This lurking center around ‘I’ was becoming tedious. If I could filed such a thing as want then it was to take on the mysteries of the great beyond full force without regret. The sum of earthly material existence is triviality to that which is fleeting and impressed merely within the instant. We fade at best into well-preserved dead flowers so faint in smell only to suggest what was lost to the leaky sieve of memory of what might come that we fear might replace it. Thus existence if defiled. For one merely becomes a space that some other anonymous stranger will all too soon come to inhabit. Acceptance is a locomotive ride off a cliff.
Still there is the impulse to save one’s self if for nothing else then a chance at the impossible. But since that can only exist in the mind the exercise becomes a conundrum. Pain is displeasure and it is coming along with that animal fear of the unknown. This the true matrix of movie fame. That mystery of beginning and fear of the loss of the opportunity to be appreciated in a way that it never can. But then all of this is just the same gargantuan bullshit that would be expected of one whose head is in the noose of the Owl Creek experience. The thought of a performance as a flailing apprentice corpse locked in the last stages of delirium not being appetizing to any but the most perverse of palates. It is an absurdity that justifys the quickest of exit offstage into anonymity of yesteryear and a quick forget.