“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.
Marijuana smoker fumes lingering by ‘Big Willie’s’ corner on the fourth floor at the entrance to the garage. So strong a ‘weedy’ smell that they suggest errant phantoms in the vicinity just recently removed at the passageway to the garage. Dreams the previous night of trying to make sense of how to rewire a female? And then, predictably, being unable to. The unworldliness of this current coffee shop with its weekly sugared treats reminiscent of a long lost Krispy Kreme store in San Francisco resurrected from memories of the earlier part of the previous decade. A trip down a false corridor of hope that saw my father mask his infirmity so as not to interfere with my vain hope for elusive success.
Perhaps you really become ‘old’ when you turn back the pages too far and caught up in trying to relive the past? Destroy one’s family and kill their culture! At least in ancient times one could blame the fickle nature of selfishly all-powerful gods. Now one has only them selves to blame! I twice so long ago asked my first and only ‘single parent head of household‘ girlfriend to marry me. But she was solidly committed to her own path of solitary fame and glory as she currently treads even now. The spirit of Christmas has been repudiated as the unloved orphan. No one now allowed to mention its name in public. A once termed ‘black sheep’ PC transfigured ‘white’ by no fault of its own once loftier intentions. The upper echelons of media mogul Hebrews wielding their brazen weapons well in order to dispel it’s existence beyond one of the bigger shopping days. The event horizon of Star Wars crashing through the holiday season subsuming every aspect of the year end celebration twisting it like aluminum foil in a hurricane wind. It’s plain face secret like its other evil twin a tissue for the mask of the internationalist’s imposition of Globalism. And the false approximation of nation state values smashed like a Jedi planet by an unencumbered Death Star omnibus as taxpayer’s nightmare for the coming year.
The future-minded current set of ‘proles’ undaunted by the larger notion of disenfranchised society. Its past tense reconfigured by the constant application of ‘crook and flail’ based technologies. The one’s that don’t question gender or race or cultural intentions but assume that everyone follows the latest release of the most popular phone apps. Following the adage of that it is better to not ask questions and be seen as ‘uncool’ no matter how egregious the concept flaunted. Leading inevitably to the smaller question of perhaps the older generation is no longer in a position to judge? A postwar tide of the exceptional expectations of the next crop of, “My child will not suffer the wrongs heaped upon me!”, ‘Uber-menchen’. The previous anachronism a ‘Seiche’ equally antithetical to that former time of a previous genus of human species! An unbounded level of selfishness then come of a false hope for a lasting Utopia and unencumbered future. Guilty of the crime of ‘manifest destiny’ assuaging the future generations of self-empowered thinking leading to safe spaces of solipsistic fantasies of happy chameleons able to accommodate any ego bound racial demand. The epitome of human thought presaged in regular existence by an assessment of personality based solely on the mix of brand name merchandise that is publicly displayed.
Consider Chuck Lorre’s vindictive payback served upon the unexpected rebellion of his former featured star avatar in the script points of the concluding episode of his biggest cash cow prime time soap opera of eleven seasons. The very Anima’s that fueled the energy of the show is publicly murdered by the perennial innocent who unsatisfied with simple assassination imprisons her sexually indifferent Prometheus in a basement torture chamber heaping down scorn upon him till he figuratively escapes cartoon character style. Two wholes and a half adding up to zero being the properly suggested dogma. Hollywood’s Tippecanoe and the audience too! The final saga unconsciously suggesting that the show’s producer would easily unleash a barely disguised Charlotte Corday to wreak unrepentant violence upon the very audience who found his previous reign of absurdist scenarios amusing rather than revolutionarily instructive of a proposed model of future society. This programmed mockery by a modernized Aaron spelling ‘Holocaust’ for all older previous generations outside his tribe. Terror unleashed upon those unlawfully expecting the same old tired mind numbing ‘light entertainment’ over the more beneficial intent of incremental PC based attitude correction. Northern Europeans ever conveyed publicly as wimps, pimps and bimbos. An Iago summoning the worst from the sensibilities’ of the masses condoning the transfiguration of ‘he’s’ to ‘she’s’ and the unstoppable import of voracious lions holding carnivorous court upon a nation of carefree lambs. “Welcome to the faux daylight of the endless dead of night!”
The incessant hush of the street far below of anonymous treads restlessly passing across wet asphalt served to disrupt the constant moan of the refrigerator. The quieter moments between this intermittent exchange further revealing a distinct restlessness of his own settled between his ears. An invisible tumbril that actively contested these warring cacophonies with its own peculiar form of ringing hiss. Above this mingled chorus resided an orchestrated sense of nervous tranquility by the relentlessly measured tick of a brass pendulum emanating from a Swiss wall clock. He was restless and the half moon mired in clouds outside his eleventh story window seemed to know it.
It may have been post midnight but for the fact of the calendar’s proximity to the Winter solstice. The intermittent coolness of the season with occasional Spring-like temperatures confounding one’s inner resolve to enter into the outside world. The terrene of man and woman continued uninterrupted by the void of his presence. The contents of the lounge room surrounding his chair seemed to squeeze in upon him as if taking the opportunity of being unencumbered by any human presence. Too many old memories had taken up permanent residence in these knickknacks. The patent accumulation of all these once familiar objects now alternatively offering both annoyance and comfort. The relative level of animal energy serving as the determining factor in suggesting the dominance of which. Right now his own storehouse was at an all time low ebb!
He padded around this obstacle course to the unlit bathroom and lifted the seat to spit some of the residual phlegm that clogged the back of his throat. Cigarette smoke dryness was afflicting it drifting in under his front door from some unknown source along the hallway beyond. He sought to take his mental protestations only as far as that door. The society outside it had ceased to interest him. He wondered how this yoke if reconfigured as a noose might accommodate his own neck? Too many years of useless struggles that reliably had resulted in the same prognosis. Death. He pondered in a studied silence as he quietly returned to his upholstered lounger, “Was this solitary existence more hassle than it was worth?” The thought of hastening to a quick end an equally futile gesture as once more embracing the struggle to beat the steep odds offered by that brazen goddess of success. The bad Karma of being a perennial loner from the ‘get go’ being his fatal flaw. The ‘sans doute’ reasoning behind his many impossible attractions to a long list of femme fatale’s. The world of business with his peers had offered no better alternatives.
The swell of the drilling between his ears had jealously overwhelmed his thoughts. He had been better off laying equally restless under several layers of blankets in the cold darkness of his bedroom. The absence of light a cover to suppress that parroting tone of his own self disregard. He had earlier made the mistake of disinterring some random photos decades past along with the muddy video of his wedding. The freshness of the reflected presence of everyone now long dead and far removed coaxed a false mindset. His world was now no longer so populous. Yet he could not prevent himself feeling as complacently comfortable as he did then as if nothing had ever changed. The only fly in the ointment was his own lack of success. Somehow, he felt, his dilemma is that through some misstep he had been left behind by all of them. This was in contradiction of the laws of nature that stated that all things both good and bad eventually cease to be. But like the proverbial loyal dog protecting its master’s grave, he had refused to move on.
A voice in the street some distance below rang out. Its gravel tone animosity spitting out its enmity to another unseen party. “Get Out!”, it repeated several times in an exhaustive hoarse screech. He rose to his feet and spread the blinds to catch sight of a car distant in the parking lot of a small strip mall across the street peeling rubber into the night. A small group of shadowy phantoms nervously gathered gesticulating in silhouette in a doorway the light from behind revealing them in their noiseless pantomime. The intervening distance between viewer and these inadvertent players significant in the analogy of possessing only tickets to the last row in an upper opera company balcony. The show went on in the nearness of far away but without him. It was hard to imagine ever having any feelings of unbounded love or passion from any times in the past. Though he knew that he had had them to the extent of having no control over the unfortunate situations that had resulted from their free reign. “Was life just a tireless comedy of errors fated to default to eventual disaster?” he wondered. That persistent hollow tunneling by the restless air of tinnitus whistling remorselessly twixt his ears straining mightily at his senses!
The free flowing tide of new unexpected addition to the rooms audio track suddenly began to sound. The blower of his apartment’s heating unit now vying for attention. The room had been without the sound of a human voice now for hours. His thought process now washed about his living space like seepage invading a cabin in a lower deck of a storm tossed steamer. There could be no hope of rest or resolution till the storm had passed. His stamina would be tested as it had always been. There was no clear amount of hope and prayer that could vouchsafe any assurance that all would turn out well. Those had long dried up in the extended transition from childhood through the long linger of adolescence into adulthood. The cigarette smoke had now fully embalmed his head from their point of entry at the nasal passages. Life had condemned its participants to a slow remorseless process of finding happiness and meaning within a constantly dissolving set of illusions. The sudden ache of his head finally signaled his conscious thought that it was time to give up the struggle for the night and return to bed.
OK Boys and girls, what do you truly believe in as irrefutable our currently agnostic century? Certainly not in the value of the American dollar which like the stars in the sky has no real published limitation on its numbers currently in circulation. How about the structural integrity of modern skyscrapers that like a Joe Palooka are now known to take a dive straight down upon themselves and completely disintegrate at the most insignificant of taps from objects of infinitesimally less mass. But then there is that cornerstone of Western ‘how-to’ of the post War era that led to so many marvelous technological devices that moderate and spy upon us today. The Apollo moon landings! That time-honored evidence presented upon the TV sets of a thoroughly wowed international audience from then to now has like many other longstanding myths of potency turned out to be a fairy tale to anyone who is willing to not take it for granted. This of course is a level of official heresy to most that protectively cradle their I-Phones from waking to slumber as an emotional placebo replacing common sense like those children that they are unlikely ever to have. The notion of any public acknowledgement of the fact that our current rulers unlike their royal counterpoints of olden times having abandoned hired troops to monitor behavior every street corner in favor of 24/7 mental massage of ‘everyday reality’ is an anathema to that daily opiate, AKA, “freedom”.
The mentality of Disney’s fabrication of a Platonic shadow kingdom of morals and dogma playing continuously in the cavern that once held the practical skepticism of animal survival has disappeared. Kids from the current generation slop up their bowls of Maypo without comment along with their daily ration of organically safe Skittles. The footprint of the amalgamation of the corporate beast burned upon what’s left of their withering brain matter. Is it any wonder that so many have difficulty communicating successfully beyond the miniature pantomime of two-thumbed Text or Twitter? The level of performance of the straight-faced CG VFX never up to the expectation of more enlightened eras of a more technical proficient ability to deceive. In this ongoing soap opera fiction, no official player in official residence is ever taken to task unless they fall out of favor with the ruling elite. No Paul Revere dare raise a legitimate ‘hue and cry’ lest SWAT teams be immediately tasked with shooting him off his horse.
So it becomes a fundamental societal demand that one’s intellect be haltered by the emanations of the different technologically sophisticated iterations of the ‘boob tube’ which are to be taken for granted ‘ipso facto’ that elephants can fly and politicians don’t lie. The proof of this claim being in every street and sidewalk where one must cautiously weave in and out to avoid being impacted by the many so encumbered. That unimaginable world of concrete Physics having long floated away to the whimsy of so many participating Walter Mitty’s. A world where lunar dust cannot be displaced immediately below one’s LEM and confused shadows from hidden sources confound but are never acknowledged. Where the rules of parallax are no longer an abeyance and a director’s cue is furiously denied by official realties. This is the type of ‘Amistad’ that one is daily chained to totally naked to the pressures of misapprehension by one’s equally unfortunate fellows. All one can say is sit back before the eleven-hundredth sequel of the same, and enjoy the ride!
The wanderings of the mind into the chaotic wilderness of night provides a topic that no one can reconcile as a portal presaging the universal road beyond physical life or simply a jumbled mental reflection of one’s life’s events. There are longstanding party games where one picks random but familiar objects and makes a story that weaves a meaningful around their totality. The momentary ingenuity of the teller of the unplanned tale provides the meaning. The mystery of the exact nature of activity performed during the witching hour remaining impenetrable to the daylight sensibilities of the dreamer. If one pitches a baseball into the empty shadow of a darkened abandoned corridor in one of these somnolent episodes there would not be much comment if it reappeared immediately heading back at the thrower by the same trajectory. If this occurrence happened in real life then there would be some commensurate level of shock afforded at the curiosity of the mechanism that remained hidden. In dreams, one walks within these shadowy corridors abruptly encountering meandering transitions that offer no explanation for their brief appearance, nor any meaning behind their misplaced jabberwocky of content. The emotional residue at waking suggesting that there was validity in an encrypted message directly pertaining to the sum total experience of the inadvertent author and participant.
Does one presage future events that are upcoming in one’s waking life or merely plan them out within our subconscious as a result of these episodes? This thought begging the question of the possibility of that universal connection to realms of existence sympathetic to this one. Since the present is merely a temporal state of being that is imperfectly stored in real time within the vagary of personal memory then are we defined by the efficacy of this sometimes imperfect mechanism of recall? The accumulation of one’s waking experience equally being analogous to a similar accretion of barnacles deposited ‘en masse’ beneath a seagoing ocean vessel. This haphazard sum of daily waking encounters appreciable only within a collectively defective arrangement favoring the absolute symmetry of what one considers rational and normal. The truly unconventional filtered out! So one has to wonder is the external in the influence of social convention the mediator that obscures the possibility of further perception that might join these two world’s of human perception together in a more cohesively understandable direction?
The location of the walkway from ship to shore between these worlds is hinted at by emotions one wakes up with about those vague mental images that slowly dissipate. An unpleasant undertone in some cases! The closer one is to achieving a meaningful connection alerting other surreptitious agendas that one not dare admit to. Be they fears, self-recriminations, or deeply buried humiliations that have been paved over by the constant enforcement of the uniformity of a singular acceptable mode of behavior holding sway over the accumulation of years, one is cut off from an essential recognition of the true nature of their total self. It is better to bear the cross upon one’s shoulder than to have their waking dream interrupted by inconvenient knowledge that might despoil the tissue of what one supposes as their default personality. The hesitation of one to readily undertake self-reflection eventually leading them down an aimless dark tunnel to entropy. Hence, one is saddled with deciphering the solution of these enigmas of the previous night lest that person lose focus of the day.