As midnight of the last hour of this year approaches and the accumulated memories of so much wasted effort gone awry wanes, I consider the past in light of its possibility of finding yet another a future. One unlike that proverbial horse caught again by unkind fate locked in a stall within a burning barn. So often have I in many years past relied upon the bulwark of my own indecision to carry me past anything demanding the cold embrace of anything new or strange. The false sense of security found in doing nothing new beyond observing the narrow wisdom of the past too comforting. The assurance of reliability in the short term eventually damning one to the vague repetition of what had been encountered so many times before. But nothing stays the same! And never committing a new option becomes implicit consent to soon die off by the weight of the old ways. For the world shifts and what was good becomes bad and the reverse.
As the many years in one ‘s life begin to accumulate to the point of losing their distinction, contemplation of such minor details as to one’s ultimate purpose overwhelm the relative benefit of always acting in the same.manner. That same weighty conversation held in private feeling increasingly akin to pushing that same old rocky large boulder up a steep incline while never knowing its purpose. Feeling less convinced this year than the previous year as to the necessity of committing to this same task of should or shouldn’t. A rising desperation come of year after year of in mounting failures punctuated by a reliable lack of personal advancement toward the empty compilation of one’s long forgotten goals. The futility leading to performing actions that are increasingly ill advised. A proposition that at best promises the surety of a roll of the dice at best. A hail Mary by a blind quarterback in the last seconds of the game.
Modern societies analogized as a tree reformatted in the modern sense of technology to the composition of common chipboard where the glue is infinitively more durable that the fragments of chattered lumber that it binds together. The business of trying to teach in an empire that has long been written off being a fallacy. A worthless gesture that brings no enlightenment to indifferent students nor reward to fools that attempts to convince them otherwise. Destiny demanding a withdrawal of their talents from these ungrateful masses in favor of finding a new audience more appreciative of one’s gifts. This is the wake that is left behind within the ocean of one’s past the dead of universal night.
OK. Reality IS reality! Right? But just who gets to determine it in a hall crowded full of people following their own unique agendas? Take a train terminal at morning rush hour emptying out its passengers for instance. As the train approaches the station a mutual sense of urgency is felt which translates in certain decisions by different random groupings of individuals to alternately crowd the entrance to make a fast break to avoid the crush of their fellows. This while others equally convinced and confident sit patiently in their seats and wait for the main body to pass before de-training. What then is the singular perspective that all seem to react to? Why does not a riot occasionally break out amidst the crush of the bustling throng between the train and the exit to the hall? Is this simply a matter of architecture based upon a millennia of study of the boundaries of the animal portion of human nature? Or is there something more here that is so obvious that it remains invisible to one in everyday experience?
If you were theoretically another species of animal one might assume that your daily behavior would be defined by your morphology and its obvious limits. A common lizard like a Gekko blessed with squat limbs and a long tail would not be expected to view the world elevated above its haunches. But of course, those afflicted with the habits or within the reach of the larger coordinated mass media outlets routinely view the same anomaly every day as part of an insurance marketing campaign. The unsullied reality of a garden patch is transformed magically into a sympathetic echo of human experience. The image persistently ground into one’s brain by constant repetition becoming a second nature default belief. Though if challenged outright as to the validity of one’s compliance with this impression upon a level of formal taxonomy one would never choose to enforce what is apparently a fantasy. The two radically different impressions both having a surprisingly equivalent amount of power over the individual.
The ultimate mechanism that push cowards and the miserly to go against their own self-interests at time is the notion of one’s word being abided by in terms of a contract. The sanctity of the social contract is the glue that binds society together in a formal sense by the administration of judgment and corresponding penalties by way of laws. Much mischievous popular fiction abounds about the neutrality of this process and the breakdown of same. Is it any wonder that most programs produced for public viewing consumption have scripted conundrums about every variation of human nature to a supposedly singular notion of what is ascribed as right? It is NOT a conspiratorial jump to make the observation that that supposedly amorphous entity know as ‘modern entertainment’ is the metaphoric equivalent of Pharaoh’s crook and flail. The regular interaction of individuals in public daily use the currency of such scripted or televised events as the basis of their interaction with one and another. The recounting of the various plays the previous evening’s sports events in explicit detail. The indulgent fascination with a sympathetic character of the supposed ‘gentler sex’ going awry out of their unfulfilled emotions. One has to wonder given the average life cycle of the urban human how much time that they devote to allowing their own sense of the world to pour forth unhindered from all these possible artificial remonstrations?
God help those who recede into themselves into what is commonly referred to as one’s ‘own little world! Be they protected to some degree as being under the mantles of a profession like the clergy or working artist they are looked upon by the rest with a wary eye by all those others around them who stay safely within conventional boundaries of apolitical discussion. The Draconian enforcement of same currently in vogue being of course the ever raging storm of that amorphous entity known as Political Correctness. An otter perplexing ever changing set of dubious standards that appear with hallucinatory efficiency to defeat both intellect and animal self-interest all for the mutual goal of values that ever go beyond any identifiable rational sense of individuality. The notion of Communism’s prime invocation for example, “From each according to their ability to each according to their need!” Considering the ever changing divergence of the composition of modern global corporate society the basis of this adage seems impossible to pin down. This exactly is it who determines the mutually agreeable social definition of need and the right to claim this identity for one’s self? What personal sense of reality does one routinely surrender without a second thought? One that might tend to bar them from any future advancement socially or otherwise?
The greater fiction is laid out for all upon the big screen over previous generations spreading the well camouflaged political agendas underneath pleasant fantasies begging underlying yearnings of the audience summarily repressed int he light of day. Sequel after sequel meticulously redesigned to fit the quirks of each successive generation to pull them into line with what is good for them as a whole. One has to question then who exactly is in control of reality if not those amalgamated organizations that make it their business to manufacture it? How can one celebrate any given popular hero then if the curtain is pulled aside causing one’s suspension of disbelief to be toppled? Can you then in light of this begin to better understand the gulf between that former world of centuries past where artful reality was the responsibility of the member’s of one’s extended family? A place where the sense of interior and exterior influence was much easily determined and the oft conflicting sense of issues of personal survival that ran counter taken with greater gravity. Consider then what sense of delusion that most in society tale under in terms of going through the motions of choices that have routinely been made for them for all their lives. What then one might ask, is reality?
Of sailor’s tales and sailor’s tune with their bold adventures hot and cold I can recall a peculiar incident unexpected where I played the cabin boy and bold young lad to a guile filled old reprobate going by the name of Silver. Ere was a man that was built like the stalk of a redwood with are like its mighty bows. Yet ironically confined to a wheel chair. Or as I was to find out, when it suited him. His rummy tongue ever ready to offer its purloined jewels of cheerful persuasion for anyone so foolish to give its claims credence and be Shanghaied into his service. For he could charm the brass off a binnacle with his sugared words too easily cast windward making one feel immediately convinced that you and he had somehow shared some longstanding common bond as mates as evident as those mighty oak toothpicks that were solidly held skyward by ratlines of social convention. These iron bands holding both of you together like the iron staves of oak the barrel of apples oft visited within the cook’s galley where he salted his tales. To me he took a particular shine, cajoling me to busker him about in his four-wheeled conveyance out destination being a small less visited community college on a distant coast. A small two-story municipal modern structure that knew nothing of pirate ways in black spotted book verses of yore or life long vendettas come of a previous maroon never forgiven on some distant sandy shore.
It was unsuspecting me who served as prime mover. I was an easterly trade wind propelling his craft its true intent hatches neatly battened down steaming away below the equatorial hot passions of ultimate purpose. The two of us tacking our way about the corridors of the first floor, my heavily laden wheeled cargo directing me to steer him clear of unexpected reefs infested by raiders perniciously concerned with boldly boarding us to haul up their humanitarian colors for the sake of any of their other ‘captains’ to plainly see. Yet by the quick counsel of my heavy ward who could sort out their bluster with his well-practiced weather eye sailed smoothly passed close hauled at any angle that might catch too much of their wind which might slow us in their wake. The goal of finding a strange elevator that operated by encompassing its passengers in a circumference from both sides before lifting them aloft to the next deck. Leaving both him and I upon the floor above before two double doors. He preparing me in the next moments for an unexpected encounter wherein I was to find out the true purpose of our briefly-shared quest. At full speed we ran the gauntlet bursting past the obstacles falling into a hall hosting an odd assembly of elder buccaneers. Their master of ceremony being an old bony scarecrow dressed ceremoniously within the ghostly tatters white canvas suggesting a bygone soul. It was to this shoal that my companion made a beeline bellowing out curses and oaths.
The assembly frozen in their seats by his unexpected presence caught in amazement and horror at the verbal maelstrom he left in his wake. His twin wheeled craft cutting across the room its approach powered by his two mighty arms one of them shooting forth to encircle the gullet of the hapless usurper that he loudly pledge his imminent vengeance upon. His other mighty arm swinging unexpectedly ‘helm alee’ like an untended mizzen yard grabbing up a large stone pillar into its grip. The object of his wrath now flung with great malice to the deck begging loudly for mercy as his limbless wheel bound protagonist lifted the full weight of his battering ram two handed above his head bring its full force repeatedly down upon the wriggling form of his unfortunate victim like a massive thumb squishing at a weevil found in the bully beef. The terrifyingly loud supplications of the unfortunate brought to final silence with a crushing blow to the skull by the juggernaut leaving an unrecognizable mess splattered across the floor.
He was the great pretender. For some unknown reason finding himself at the studios of Saturday Night Live at what he surmised was a simple rehearsal. There by no other fact of simply standing around like he belonged. A someone having no business there spontaneously working around the edges worming his way across the floor behind the imrov of the regular players. Sucking up the electric juices that bounced out of the camera off the floor occasionally towards his direction. Slowly drawn to their illumination like the branches of a plant leaning ever closer to the rays of the morning Sun. A silent pantomime that came spontaneously born of both nervousness and hopeful vanity. So much so that he was unable to stop. Inching his way twisting and turning like a nervous caterpillar compelled into slow motion oblivious to the mounting ire of the seasoned performers who found his nagging presence irritatingly inane. But the cameras continued to turn onto his antics as they snuck past the background for they were so off ‘beatly‘ bizarre that their persistence lended itself to universal fascination. To be sure, he could no longer help himself but continue do them. Pissing off Beluchi and another weekly regular who tried mightily to ignore him by silently mocking him with their disdain. The tick starting to become perpetual like some spastic bad impression of a nineteen-fifties spook. An awkward Vampira or inexplicably human SiFi‘ blob! To the other performer’s horror the show’s producer was beginning to see some merit in having him do his wordless ‘schtick‘ on his show possibly as a regular. This upstart from nowhere who like all the rest of the performers was viciously commited to leave an impression before as big of an audience as he could grab on his own at any cost.
Christmas Day. The light begins to fail within this living mausoleum of recent memories wherein my parents lived and spent their final years. I worship the shadows of my past going through the old pictures to choral music celebrating life. The small tree bearing the fruit of artifacts come direct of my mother’s hand. I look through albums that I might have exhumed in her final months when I could have found out more about her. The light settles and leaks out of the room and is replaced by the quiet glow of the family totem beside me. I wonder how long the present arrangement will last? Moment to moment I feel that I am waiting. To fall into that timeless state that brings me back to so many moments that are now eternal. I see them both within this new light. Young and beautiful in youth and old and serene in latter age. The map of the apparent secrets of their lives spread out before me in fading silver on small squares of brittle paper. Where as in my dreams they come to visit from that place removed by time and space where they were as enduring as the assurance of an unending number of ceaseless days. Now that wine is spilled and gone. The illusion broken that once whispered to me that I have some special claim to life eternal. So much taken for granted over most of my life now beyond precious. Each moment passes and I hope to awaken somewhere back then with this same feeling of love welling up that my heart was once incapable of expressing. Wherein I should feel simply sad I feel lucky to have known so much of what I now so desperately miss. I will not perish from the absence of this bittersweet pain but live on within the perpetual glow of all those more than passing memories. They live within me still as I will always continue to live with them. Merry Christmas!
That special excitement of a young child at the prospect of their first recognizable Christmas morning recounted in the approximation of memory many decades on. The darkness and stillness of night holding a vigil by the light of the Christmas tree thinking of all those Christmases that have come in-between. Some of them joyful. Too many indifferently observed! Those evening thoughts of the morning to come yielding an expectation of the bounty to come of this holiday. That anonymous effort in the dead of night when the top shelves of closets were emptied by one’s parents to bestow this playful seasonal myth in evidence below the tree. All for the sake of their children! A celebration of family present and possible family to come! All this comes to mind in the stillness of every Christmas past. When one has to wonder how many more such celebrations are left for one to enjoy? The presents one wishes for no longer material or expensive but simple. Séance’s with those now sorely missed but never forgotten in the recollection of one’s heart. The foot of the tree bearing a few time honored artifacts that have stood the test of dust and time. Humble reminders of those phantoms and their devotion to this yearly cause of once more providing unrepentant joy to the grown children they so much loved.
There is an old wives tale an old doubt supported by a factoid somewhere that when a member of the tribe of American Indians became too old they were left in the woods to fend for themselves and serve an ecological function of being food for the coyotes and bears. There is an equally prevalent phenomena present in these modern times wherein the dominant culture will go along way to prove their rivals guilty of the very same types of behaviors that they refuse to acknowledge in themselves. The current manufactured fictions abound that categorically state as a matter of irrefutable fact self-righteously proclaimed this 24/7. Many who find themselves isolated and estranged by this ongoing pernicious sense of contemporary mass communication mischief find no solace in the self-serving dogma as entertainment that it distributes. How nice that in this time of annual celebration of the metaphoric concept birth as scientifically based upon the ecliptic tilt of the earth that our wobble up back to warm sunshine is so contested? The more forgiving aspects of the holiday considered as its foundation and ‘raison d’etre’ are viciously controverted by more popularly distributed idea of greed, mayhem and that particularly solipsistic trait of conveniently forgetting others who are inconvenient to the advancement of one’s own concept of ‘number one’? The holiday topical selections offered by the insurance owned movie production companies seem to bear this lack of holiday spirit out.
The darker emotions of those considered as ‘aged’ at these times is not necessarily a syndrome so much as a realization of self and status of where one stands within the world around them in a very detailed sense. It is all to easy to review the activities of the past year at this time when for short periods daily activity are purloined by the shift of seasons. There is some mortal irony in the fact that for the northern cultures, this spinning orb’s elliptical path finding itself furthest from the life-giving provider of the Sun has long chosen to hope for a continued form of spiritual revival. The annual dormancy at the start of the season of Winter metaphorically stands in for the specter of death experienced as the ultimate diminishment of the available number of hours of sunshine. The lack of the same naturally summoning memories brighter happier events posed upon previously sunnier days. This phenomena affecting the species has been in force for a very very long time.
The current rush by those anonymous unseen to plain view governing mercantile powers impatient to implant their notions of Globalism by a determined strategy of the complete destruction of the former independent cultures through fostering mass despair works along the cracks of one’s own weaker sentiments. One where the proverbial ‘blanket’ of national identity and accompanying concepts of morality as once was known are indifferently ripped away off everyone across the planet for the sake of a self-serving Utopian agenda demanding a rationally organized world society. This trend is promoted by bringing out the worse in people through the most persuasive motivating tool of producing fear. Fear of loss, fear of personal dissolution, fear of being isolated, fear of no future! That ‘old‘ concept of Christmas as was once known as a child was based upon the idea of felicity and inclusion. Something now found perverted to a childish sense of natural entitlement. Even if in the best scenarios of actual practice this former mental construct of society was as thinly veiled in its real intentions as is now it’s essential message persists. This has been refashioned to a time for orphans. Those not having direct experience of a ‘father’ or alternately surviving a central parent that has long been indifferent to their own tenuous sense of personal importance making this time of the year emotionally biting to their sense of self. The aura of general sadness can not fully describe it. Though the tales of Charles Dickens though may come close? Many feel, “On their way out!”, much in the way that the original sense of Christmas Spirit currently seems to currently be. A genral embarrassment to those of more avaricious PC driven sentiments from ‘Liberals’ for what has in recent years become considered as ‘old thinking‘. Yet generic holidays can never provide that same measure of happiness as those that one has long become attached to. Especially when they are expected to make the old ones fade away in plain sight!
“When you just don’t feel like life there is always the option of conveniently dying!” That was what Roger felt as he peered out into the dense fog that was standing in for the failed expectation of yearly snow blizzard. The nation was in the grip of the unorthodox both politically and otherwise. His generation had been summarily cast off like a snake strenuously loosening itself from the confines of an outer cover too small and constraining. The weather didn’t matter to the reigning generation. As long as the stores were open with extended hours and they could get their last minute ‘buy off.’s’ for the nameless kids of their distant cousins. Christmas, as Roger had known it, or thought he had, was a mesmerizing concoction of old Hollywood sappiness conjured with dim memories summoned from small fuzzy faced snapshots that lay haphazardly gathered somewhere in a drawer. The solitary nature of these emotionally deadly holidays for those of advancing age was more about the realization of former longstanding rituals being permanently and irrevocably interrupted. Fading memories could not serve to stand in as replacements for what he surmised was a loss of animal functionality. He supposed that the essence of that thing named youth was congealed in the ability to overcome anything. While it’s lack signified an unwilling but mandatory acceptance of the glaring fact that anyone not making the cut would be slowly excluded from the pack. In some ways, perhaps, he was right! But the shackles that bound him from the lost illusion of further enjoyment were imaginary and of his own making. Hadn’t he seen Charles Dicken’s.” Scrooge” enough times?
The lingering idea ringing about in his head that there was a single acceptable mode of proper conduct had long ago been dissolved by his tacit notation that attitudes could publicly shift in a short span of time. The accommodation of what had been unacceptable yesterday quickly flushed with a lifestyle electron jump to what was now considered ‘The Norm‘. The fickle process of change resulting in the usual rhetorical game of ‘witch hunt‘ for convenient scapegoats easily remonstrate-able on both sides of the issue. But then one could not blame these central martyrs of the respective causes so much as those of the invisible herd who just went along without so much as a mouse squeak. They were somebody’s children somewhere? Ones who were, depending on your side in any given issue, culpable. The one common trait was that contemporary youth was ever to be afforded the moral high ground for easily condemning the contradiction of advancing age. Society’s answer to same was in providing all future generations with circuses composed of endless mental fantasy in computer based playgrounds affording opportunities to reject any reasonable necessity to contend with the physical world of everyday street level reality. The Smart phone and tablet was invented with that in mind. A device tasked with making available one’s favorite movie or episode, ‘On Demand‘ in any situation. Everyone was simply a cartoon character alternately acting cute or irritating depending upon their visible rites of passage compared to an easily recognizable cliche that they summoned forth. The aged were particularly high scoring easily available targets in this regard. There was always the opiate of reliable response easily available in popular sequels of major movie and games franchises to power out of the awkwardness of insoluble social complexities. A Dunkin Donuts on every corner! A Game Stop to provide quick sojourn in the markdown and trade in value of last years hottest game for the latest most sought after iteration of the same. How could a trip to a bar or Grandma’s house on those fatal family days of the year hope to compete with that? Christmas was a aged dinosaur that had shed too many outer coverings over the last century to expect to recognizably survive the holiday release of the latest rehash of a well-regarded ‘space jockey’ epic . In a land where cooking at home centered around a microwave, reheating something stored in the freezer had become preferable to the waiting time inherent with the stove.
Roger knew all this. The best recognition that he might be lucky enough to attract from any given stranger would be as a passive stand in for an older more awkward less entertaining incarnation of Porky Pig. He had no right to expect otherwise. It seemed better to stay silent in public then play pawn in that Chess game for the impossible quest for finding further virtues of Christmas past. But like some modern incarnation of Diogenes it didn’t stop him from giving it ‘lip service‘ by passively trying. Find a place in that lingering impossible moment in a ‘Ripped Van Winkled‘ clueless Don Juan who could never quite understand why most others in the countryside around him who had steady jobs did not somehow feel the exact same emotions that he did? That irrepressible St. Vitus-like contagion of ‘Holiday Spirit‘ had driven him the day before to trespass publicly trespass within a distant archipelago belonging to the better heeled wealthier classes. An upscale restaurant cast in the drag of a ‘chic‘ Parisian ‘bistro le déjeuner’. Too late Roger finding out that like any other ‘vagabond undesirable‘, he would NOT be saved from the scorn of drowning his hunger face first in the iron ‘moule’ pot of Christmas ‘ennui’ by the likes of any of the surrounding dowagers and their snot faced little nephews. Their real fur coats and those self-righteous true life stories of their mavens forcefully coveting unused corporate bagels at failed sales events from being purloined by those common parasites positioned too far below their daily schedule of acceptable conversation. It seemed hard not to despise these people who worshiped material success with that accompanying rigor of a tightly monitored social pecking order as being anything other than hypocritical fools. Yet, what was the purpose of his own mission in being there? He defaulted to a wish that he had both the constitution, and the pocket book to be one of those who could sit merrily content on a bar stool all day happily singing along with any infrequent Christmas jingle that the house speakers might deign to provide the notion of a holiday. But then, that was reality!
The story that he toyed with in his mind concerned two battered survivors of a trans Pacific passenger plane crash. Washed up badly burned and barely alive they eventually recover from their infirmity unrecognizable from the horrible scarring of the ordeal. Removed both physically and psychologically by the pathetic state of their appearance they eventually grow accustomed to each other and have an extraordinary love affair based upon their default personalities that begin to slowly bloom once again over time.
He had stayed up till 4 AM. This was extraordinary by the fact of the previous three days, each of which he had retired early at 7 PM and had slept on and off for eleven hours. Sharp pains emanating from his hernia distended apron had summoned him from Morpheus’ kingdom to sit before the ‘boob tube’ trying to massage the noisy gas through to his rectum which seem closed for the night. George Steven’s slow moving epic in 70MM, The Greatest Story Ever Told, had his eyes pinned open. The sounding brass of late night sponsors posed betwixt each episodic parable had him going through the motions of resurrecting his ability to recite along with each. Though by the end of the extended period of this exercise he had been unable to resist its inherent moral authority to nudge him to reevaluate his own life, he could not claim any significant change in his outlook beyond a little deeper awareness of his own shortcomings. The holidays in general when the atheistic broadcast media would grudgingly loose such moral epics at odd hours of the early AM in order to be able to boast that they were open minded. Sleep came fast and waking more strenuous in light of the rise of the Sun.
The coffee shop had changed hands. Gone was the middle aged Persian whose Bohemian desires to participate in the neighborhood intelligentsia had simply lead to a slow form of financial disappointment. Two robust Mexican dudes now claimed ownership having transferred deeds and moved about the mismatch of furnishings to accommodate a Deli style cooler. The small pile of glass covered cheap sugary donuts and long john’s had replaced the chic of specialty cinnamon rolls and faux European pastries. These new ‘bolillo’ boys had plastered the walls with the rough hewn scrawl announcing sandwiches as only as exotic as ‘paninis’ and Italian subs. The emptiness of the tables spoke volumes of a hard start to their franchised empire dreams. Perhaps they knew something about the local demographics as the sidewalk covered along the way from the parking spot now sported a new Taqueria? Their universe seemed more functionally orderly than the rustic charm of the previous owner’s mercantile chaos. At least to that eye viewing the file fiche of mental recollection nested within!
An awkward mismatch in the form of a young couple sitting at right angles to each other padlocked in the usual jaded sense of dis-interest that was in vogue for their kind. Small snippets and overgenerous slices of conversation were insubstantial to settle the matter for the benefit of a strange ear as to whether or not they had an ongoing intimate connection? She was tall straight and skinny sitting vertically alert in an old worn easy chair beside her companion’s abundantly empty settee. The heavy plastic eyeglass frames perched upon her nose proclaimed the emptiness of intelligence. But they vied for attention with a perky paired very evident rack pointing out barely suppressed beneath a shiny white diaphanous satin blouse. An accompanying honey thick voice droned on washing over her male companion who sat back empty headed rubbing the thick dark whiskers of his beard feeling the follicles push a centimeter at least past a length that would have been in keeping with the iconic presence of a Fidel Castro or the ensemble of the Smith Bros. His lack of reaction seemed to suggest an adherence to the current asceticism of rightful female dominance to hog any conversation. As they left the boyfriend invoked his rights to push a heartbeat ahead of her leaving his hand barely trailing behind him to keep the return of the front door from closing in upon her. “So much for the ancient art of Chivalry”, the solitary man whistled to himself from his vantage point afar as the couple departed mutually oblivious of the gravity of this slight?
The nagging of his bladder once again revived the approach of another round of sharp pains. A delayed reaction this time to his downing two rounds of coffee in too close a proximity upon the same morning. The combination providing a ‘whipstock’ to motivate the tenuous feeling of constant urgency into that next step to blissful active elimination. The WC was uncharacteristically configured in an interior architecture of suburban residential swank. A clue no doubt to its former life as a residence for a would be privileged artistic ‘wanta-be’ who had also treasured reliving their grand daddy’s ‘beat generation’ panache. As if summoned somehow by the fact of his mental observation, a blonde-haired black Spandax legged Feminist auteur suddenly entered the establishment subsequently offering the same coded question of its transitional ownership. Somewhat disappointed by the response she aborted her order for a Cappuccino deferring to a small simple cup of ‘Joe’ with a splash of crème. The abrupt change in regime deposed to a lesser more available form of foreign cuisine making her think twice of ever returning. The random chatter of Spanish in her wake from the two street level-headed owners no doubt chasing away her fit illusions. As if timed by a runway fashion producer, yet another couple of mixed pedigree arrived a few instants later. The orphan cup of coffee tall that he had noticed in abandon some minutes before that had appeared seemingly unclaimed had now just as mysteriously vanished.
She wore the uniform of close fitting Spandax but filled it out with a less lithe ethnic framework that more emphasized the durability of a border barrio rather then the sleek endomorphic tyranny of Hollywood. They took up unknowing residence in the exact same spot as the previous couple, her machine gun pace of topics covering a normal week’s worth of topics within a short span of minutes. Her young white boy sat quietly zipped up entombed in Smart phone attentiveness. His ears cocked like a Spaniel dormant before his master’s whim waiting for a major shift in the volume or tone of her words to respond in some immediate physical way. She too had a voice that was both irritating and cloying at the same time. The heavy icing of Hispanic street hard lingo masking an underlying innocence and sincerity that seemed to well up within her face during infrequent pauses. He was beginning to feel too over observant though his lead position overlooking the two of them left him little alternative. A sense of unease come of this unavoidable voyeurism uncovered a sense of helplessness in being unable to resist being filled by the public outpourings of strangers? He too sat dog-like waiting to start from apparent laziness at the occasion of the next unexpected entrance or conversational seismic shift occurring within the room. A counterpoint to the couple in the foreground was not forming like a gathering wind from occasional flare-ups by another couple located by the front entrance at the room’s far end. One that he had conspicuously avoided posing any attention towards do to the fact of its coffee and crème pairing in the usual deferential politeness of not offering undue attention to the fact of them. Like clockwork again the couple before him beat a hasty retreat to the exterior swiftly replaced by a gadget happy technocrat taking possession of the table in between to spread his case of toys across the available areas of the table surface.
The distant Negro’s ‘baleboste’ was making her way to the counter once again with the determination of a steel belted light cruiser at full steam ahead. His white trophy wife was all to obviously costing him dearly not only in Shekels but in constant salvos to his shaky male ego! Perhaps she had gotten married out of her faith far below her suburban station to someone she could count on in terms of being ever well in hand under her thumb? A balm perhaps to a previous contentious marital struggle with a well-heeled ‘yiddisher kop’ who turned out to be a ‘schlemiel’? The front door opened again and the gregarious atmosphere was sucked out of the room by another rapid departure. The dim echo of the previous nights motivational epic seemed to fill the empty space around him. The mental semblance of the parables wafted about way above his pay grade. An insistence beat suddenly took hold of the room drubbing banal lyrics over a mentally challenging mind numbing beat. The technocrat now encased in Mickey Mouse sized headphones sat indifferent and engrossed in the screen of the laptop just before him. The coffee had run out and his edgy nervousness to absorb the patterns of other lives was not longer being serviced by the room’s empty indifference. The flash of a woman rapidly passing outside the window with what appeared the be a large vacuum cleaner rolling past at top speed just before the misanthrope seated within snapped to attention. The absurdity of this all was far past further comment.
What a strange irony that one knows the experience of being alive directly but one must seek a reflection from the living of it to know themselves. A life without belief in something better is a tyranny that the spirit cannot hope to survive. Evil is that thing which would deprive someone of that hope. There is a part of us all that desires truth above all pleasures of the flesh. The war of the spirit with the illusion of the flesh is eternal. Cast not your gloom upon others but bask in the light of the humble gifts that others anonymously provide. The sole hope for the divine comes not in losing one’s self within it but by unconsciously embodying it through virtue. Focus not upon the world’s woes and the flaws of others but by inspiring a vision of something universally worthwhile. Forget the world’s acclaim in favor of following your own best sense of right. Give service to the best in one’s self and forgive the weakness that resides within. Honor those who have brought you into the world and given succor with an open heart. Make not your cause to extinguish all enemies but to ever discover new friends. Learn from your mistakes and have the courage to see them for what they were not. Treasure the stillness of your own being that you may truly hear all things above the ringing silence.