It is dawn of the last day of the year. The lame duck Christmas tree is lit. Things are mostly quiet save for the blower on the heater that sounds like a distant shower head at work. The unit clicks off and the clock chimes. My own ears buzz with an awareness of a constant chirp of something electric possibly WIFI. Where has the world that I once knew gone to? The artifacts of previous times stand out in an otherwise empty room like museum pieces. The people responsible and the world that they once know are long past. My sense of it irrecoverable. I am left with the thin soup of my own much diminished sense of self. Nothing to cry about certainly because somewhere swimming around within is a particle or two of that personality that I could claim as my own. “Funny that?” as a Brit might say. The staggering shift of the perspectives of this country are undeniable. Some have said that the old United States is gone. And in its place is some souped up Hollywood mentality driven post Apocalyptic movie set filled with people that have no clue what parts they are about to play in the coming drama.
The heritage of my age group is on its way out. We belong to those strange enigmatic times of Disco and Vietnam and Dolby cassette technology. That dubious gift of Rock and Roll a fading religion that has become so archaic to the point that beyond small cults of hanger’s on it can only be celebrated as sampled lifts for the new epitomes of country influenced hip hop. My own radio silent now for a decade or more. I listen at these quiet times to the constant rumble of passenger jets taking off from the distant airport. The interval of tick and tock from my own clock in sympathy with my heart. Memory is an inconstant friend that comes around to remind me about those initial thoughts of childhood where I saw another someone not too unlike myself caught up at this very stage of existence. My impressions at that time much less kind and understanding. Perhaps human existence is plied upon a carousel where you are propelled round and around morphing from things young and fresh to old and exhausted?
The saga of existence is necessarily one of an ultimate surrender. One’s greatest works are all destined to sit on a shelf somewhere gathering dust if you are lucky. If you are not they will only be accompanied back to the ether with all those other great inspirations experienced but never acted upon. And that is how it should be. God forbid if any would have followed through with any and all ‘bright ideas‘ at any given time. It may be that it is the one or two that you come back to that possess sufficient worth to merit a glance or two by another somewhere some time. The great ‘WE‘ just want to continue to chase the dangling juicy carrot with an impression that they are getting ever closer to their prize. Perhaps only those who’s business it is to sail the oceans realize that a good day on earth is maintaining constant steam for a unspecified multiple of dozen miles or so. I for one retain my place on the bridge or an otherwise shabby tug. My many analogies merely letter-sized paper hats set forth upon the waves each soon soaking into a crumble with some joining the myriad of bottle caps dancing restlessly upon an eternally restless surface betwixt water and air.