Dizziness and headaches that constant feeling of indigestion signaling that you are too fat for your own good. The TV goes on. What worked for Sidney Greenstreet is not particularly your cup of tea after all. Besides, when was the last time you had tea instead of coffee. Peter Lorre was a moral equivalentalist. Six of one or half a dozen of the others, it matters not as long as you add yourself to the equation first. The pleasantly blond Satan may not have been in my list of disguises as well as age and indulgence had eaten away at my self-worth. Who after all was fooling who? Life was not a rehash of cinematic fictions of past hands. All of them were dead now and lived at the pleasure of well-preserved celluloid or bytes of BluRay. I could no longer fit in that sleeve these days then I could happily mount a crosswise smile on cold sidewalk cement. The dilemma of existence had its drawbacks. Ones like the desire to fill one’s gut with the emotional cotton of junk food and sweets. Like some old fifties French Belmondo flic, obsession was much easier to abide than empty discipline.
So now each night locked away in a ten by twelve cavern laying horizontal the pulse of the wrist is checked and rechecked. Waiting for the big one. Never believing that it would really arrive though the knowledge that one’s father had drawn his last breath on this very mattress spoke otherwise. The winding trail within now customarily gurgled unabashedly. There were no more, “starting tomorrow’s” as tomorrow was a better approximation of yesteryear for someone who had a hard time envisioning a future anymore. No more taken by surprises. The blond Satan now merely an overly long tapeworm sightlessly hanging onto life by the skin of his teeth. There was no tunnel of light in the distance ahead but rather a caldron of porcelain that would conduct one to the true underworld of modern mankind’s making. The haunting mystery of a moonlit forest at midnight had been supplanted by bad plumbing. If the innards had become crotchety then whose fault was it after all? The infirm always seek the numbing balm of mindless comfort after all. They will curl and twist and turn like a corkscrew just to get that right unnatural position that affords them the least sensation. Lifelong existence can be like that as well.
Dream too hard of a French chateau and angry peasants will magically arrive to tear you from its magnificent splendor and burn it down. Wilma was a peasant after all. Two overloaded forty-five automatics were like shoes made of blocks of concrete bound for the East River in his hands. How long is long when the present circumstance doesn’t equate to that self-wrought descriptive piece of paper hidden away in the special deposit section of one’s own ego bank. When the plaster cast of the old black bird arrives no one is really under contract to make a big stink that there are no jewels inside. We’re all not sitting on dynamite. Just that cushy cheap burgundy lounge chair bathed in blue velvet flickering sixty cycle shadows of someone else’s bygone imagination. So let’s have another cup of coffee and lets have another cup of tea. Sing that song long enough and fall prey to Tiger Lee. Life comes and life goes but it’s all part of the game! Maybe I’ll get to sleep by three?