“It is what it is! I am what I am! And Popeye rules this earth! I found myself chided for what I had unconsciously dropped between the chair and the wall. The rest was a bundle of claptrap that didn’t make a bit of sense. Mist over everything both inside and out. Not what one could call an auspicious end to a years that had offered no hope out of a three year slump. It felt as if it was almost planned that way? Maybe it was! People didn’t behave the same in a way that I was considered useful . . .”
From that point on the rambling script on the pages was illegible. The small journal having sat too long in a puddle of rye found by the body soaking away subsequent thoughts for the duration of the night. Two slugs from behind after the front door was forced. The guy never knew what hit him. His brains splattered all over the television’s fractured screen. Whoever did the hit was good at their job. Get in, ‘pop pop‘ and then get out. Probably walking down the hall with a scarf pulled up around their head so no one could make him out through the gauntlet of peep holes leading to the stairwell. In any case they had plenty of time to make their escape during the twenty minutes time it took for the cops to arrive. I guess they weren’t in too much of a hurry as this building had a local reputation for punitive domestic goings on and noisy neighbors. It sure didn’t help that poor slob tipped over face forward with half a head. But then help for him was no longer an issue.
The police muscled past the broken door past the two ambulance attendance and their bailey. Someone else living on the premises had obviously braved sneaking out for a moment to take a peek and then called an ambulance before these officials had arrived. Maybe the three officers felt a bit outstaged? But their lack of haste in performing their duty didn’t show it. Professional detachment being demonstrated in going through the motions of collecting evidence and dispassionately documenting this crime scene. The neighbors on the floor were all standing behin their doors listening. Those unspecified eyes lurking anonymous behind eyelets inset into doors trying to find out more gory details about the homicide. Some wondering how all this fit in with a tenant that they had passed in the hallway exchanging customary greetings with. Someone who seemed incline to go out of his way to open doors and sometimes engage in polite conversation for a moment or two. Dead? Murdered? How could this be! Yet to roll the clock back before the recent New Years celebration the answer was obvious.
So he was a son of a bitch. You could see if in every woman’s eyes that he ran into. The trouble was that he knew it. And worse yet at heart he really wasn’t a stinker. Maybe it would have been better if he had been one. Hearts being tough as nails these days he wasn’t going anywhere that he hadn’t been all along. All the good she’s were ago long forgotten in the dust. He had more than his share for a while. But after a busted marriage some twenty years too late it really didn’t matter. If women were booze he could easily swear off them. But deep within a shell was a molten core that hadn’t quite cooled. The band played its foxtrot Negro inspired rhythms throughout the night. It was new years eve any year! Or maybe, no year. One that seemed to go on and on with little or no hope of change. At least the building would be buzzing with some tasty morsels of gossip to spread. The speculation about the past of the deceased would grow and confident theories about the true nature of the victim’s existence would grow from the seeming bedrock of sheer fantasy. A poor reflection of trite Hollywood narrative currently playing on the screen
Society as it had descended provided the answer. All the potent signs were there in a final end that was coming and was terrifyingly imminent! The rebirth of a new Weimar sense of Democratic Sachlichheit favoring any and all things divisive, offbeat or dysfunctional was upon them. A second coming of industrially manufactured decadence descending down hard upon them all. This morally helpless generation that was born into uselessness institutionally learning nothing from the past. And being directed by ideologically minded criminals whose only ethic was the robbery for its own sake from these same faceless masses in absconding with more and more and more! An underlying cynical vindictiveness passed down upon the children of the former masters in a demented world view wreaking vengeance for the sake of superficial identities created out of this venom alone. It was easy to see why his apartment was the most logical target amidst all the others what would soon provide a similar opportunity!
Considering the constant reprise of past nightmares of Utopian societies subsumed by two-legged parasites naturally banding together to inspire perpetual havoc? Taking all the worst qualities of mankind refined over thousands of years of an insect based hive directed life and then see it infect a new host generation that has managed to struggle to some new peak of initiative beset by these age old poisons. The stilted hegemony crashing the system with a frightening regularity only allowing a small portion of humanity to remain to struggle up from the ashes once again to find some new further unexpected epitome. The essence of human life demeaned to cattle and transposed to machines with every detail surveyed, recorded and inculcated into lifeless technologically inspired inventions that at best could only imitate life but never be truly alive. The rote procedures of the Police were completely outside the province of determining the true cause of the murder. The motive had been one of the oldest in the book. The law of the jungle! Kill all rival thoughts! Or be killed by them.
The evening had descended upon his biology several hours earlier than expected. The year’s end. It was as normal one could suppose. Way too normal to him. Sufficient warmth, a full belly and a roof over his head yet the reliable stillness engendered emptiness. And while this was not inordinately disturbing it had a nagging quality that required some diversion to keep him from pondering it obsessively. Old movies, Internet or oblivion. The outside at five-thirty in the afternoon more aptly resembled nine o’clock at night. There hadn’t been an evening in the last two weeks that he had stayed awake past seven. A degree of embarrassment in not being able to last past ten. But what was the use? No one was around to disappoint. No one to embarrass. No one to hide how empty his current existence was. It had not always been so. The night was long and maybe much longer than was bearable at this point. What had happened to that far away bygone memory of a world of happiness and someone there to be in love with? Did it ever exist to begin with?
He had been living on a merry go round for as long as he could recall. The notion of fame and glamor as industrially presented throughout his life keeping him in limbo of constant expectation near to fruition. Yet without ever attaining anything of substance. Things that seemed to be touchstones for use to find instant success were found soon as naught to simply become successive waves of empty useless junk. The vacuity that they inspired was ever too obvious to others who felt that his priorities were ever elsewhere. His innocence lost in ceaseless ambition.for his own personal conception of the brass ring gleaming ever more golden at every pass yet ever out of reach. And now he had to live with the fact that this quest had ruined him for the very world that he had desired. That it had all past by him as a result of his own gullibility and foolishness. But why? Something that he might have asked himself many years back without hope of receiving a fit reply. But now approaching the other side of the mountain the answer to explain it had become all too clear. He was a fool. A fool with a lifetime of hard won knowledge come of the hard knocks endured and stowed deep down below out of sight to stew and fester away until today. That was why he realized that going through the motions of an empty dream could no longer provide any sense of piece.
The world was a lonely place because he had not taken the effort to find someone to share it with. To follow what was the normal course of personal evolution of a growing bond of love as found in producing offspring and gaining happiness as well as enduring sadness. But doing so together. It seemed clear to him now. Yet to say so aloud was not possible as it might sound like a voice other than his own pronouncing sentence on one condemned. What did it matter to a society of others if his view of things as they really were held some degree of meaning or influence? It was just a vanity come of a sense of latent insecurity that needed proof of his worth in a contest with phantoms that in the end mattered little now that he had conquered his curiosity about such things. They had turned out in the end to be fictions that dissolved into further unrealities that ultimately led to the consequence of misguided actions. Something a trained bear might sense in its cage hearing the far off melody of other things wild and free. All it could do now far removed is growl and slobber laying listless head upon its paws. Stare out at the world beyond those bars and try to find a way to thank those bars for keeping him safe for what he was no longer fit or able enough to survive.
It was still dark. The tangle of dreams lodged like wheat paste inside the porch of his consciousness demanding a sort before the entire contents was removed to someplace unknown. Were there any pearls of wisdom to be had in his own mental chest of drawers? He could recall the presence of his long departed parents with him. The conversation being something about cleaning out the remaining items somewhere up on a higher floor of the old house built in the nineteen twenties that they had held as income property when he himself was a very young man. The confusion of fading recall that quietly beset him suggesting to his waking mind a conversation centered upon items of his that he had left there long ago, Having been overindulgent in his youth in over coddling him thoughout most of it, not to mention a portion of his adulthood, they had unhesitatingly taken on the task. When he realized that his musing within the nocturnal cloud of wispy presence that these aged spirits had taken on the task merely at his conjuring the thought alone he ran up to the upper level and found the apartment completely cleared out, A bare red rug freshly vacuumed and all other evidence of his former habitation completely removed. This stunning surprise having been relieved of so many half forgotten things classified and logged in vague memory now impossible to recall beyond the fact of their disappearance. He gazed out the back porch window but could find no evidence of anything waiting for pickup by the gate to the alley.Apparently the ledger book in some strange way had been completely cleared?
The sky sitting out beyond the open blinds was not yielding more than an occasional twinkle from far off distant fireflies waiting for clearance from the airport. All was stillness and calm aside from the quiet brushing sound of cars passing over a thin layer of snow that had descended lightly. A new day predicating another new dawning had bustled up against the indeterminate time since slumber had carried him away the evening previous. The number of colorful tiny lights glowing upon the land seemed diminished. Sunday was upon all as the rumble of a nearby car motor struggled to shake off the coldness from its engine block with its growling pistons. The proposition of another day was slowly being discussed in the actions of a few others who had already come to a definite conclusion. The question for himself now being could he shake himself out of the grip of all things past now that he had a sign that it had been cleared away for him? The engine without suddenly fell silent. The cavern of near silence that it left in its wake seemed to demand something definitive from him. A whole new line of thought that was completely unfamiliar. Maybe even intimidating! How to pick up stakes from all things long gone and move on without looking back. It seemed to him sitting there that the first step had already been taken for him.
It had been some four years plus since anyone had lived here beyond him. Fifteen hundred rise and falls of the Sun on the horizon slowly forgetting his previous daily existence. A long time to become detached from the kin that had previously been the rightful owners of this living space. A small section of floor space on a larger plan in a middle floor of a mid century high rise on the edge of a larger metropolis. Though forced to make daily forays out into the world for work and food he had slowly lost touch with it. Things had been made worse by his losing his daily employ and having to depend on the state to supply him a stipend to purchase foodstuffs. As he sat upon the last remaining two-seater sofa in the lounge he contemplated the dark horizon as embers seemed to gather in the distance readying themselves to once again meet the first light of the sun. Where he wondered was the illumination to light a path out of his every descending dilemma of skating eternal darkness. No expression upon his face as he sat silently low in the saddle of the old broke back couch. The portraits around the room no longer stared out with a plausible familiarity that claimed a actual human entity as the physical source of their being. He looked over to the pinpoints upon the faux tree-like manifestation of the end of the year holidays and felt no fondness or connection with it. Whatever memories within hum had become sterile like the bits and pieces of the residual recollection of his fragmentary youth. What had steadily been preserved over nearly all of a human life was a constant mistrust of his fellow creatures. The slow procession of which that had marched through his life now remembered for their unique qualities of kindness so much as the same story of eventual indifference to him. All those that he came to know in the intervening decades had eventually trailed away in another direction despite his strenuous efforts to dissuade them otherwise. He was thus pronounced a perpetual loner.
There had been a mighty struggle going on within him throughout the successive intervening years since childhood. One where every attempt to accommodate the meandering course of public conventionality’s subsided into a new enigmatic puzzle that seemed to offer no fit solution as to how to navigate. A damned if you do and damned if you don’t continuum of hopeful overtures that too quickly subsided into false starts. Friendships, brief romantic affairs, and even a star-crossed stint at marriage all failing miserably for reasons unknown to him despite his best efforts to bend and satisfy. The world seemed to finally descend upon him as if it had become a mighty leaden cloud full of an eventually lethal menace that might sooner or later take even this sparse form of existence away. There was too much evidence of others that shared the same dilemma in far off cities that barely existed in far of urban districts far to the West. Every day had been a bit more grim than the collection of same that had dissolved into a nothingness without promise or exception. There might have been something tragic about this had their been at least another solitary soul in his company to appreciate the insoluble dilemma that beset him. Yet he himself felt no despair or self pity on his own account. He was struck by the fact of how persistent and unrelenting was his own condition of life. But had no sympathy for himself and occasionally some degree of maudlin emotion for anonymous others that theoretically shared a similar experience to his circumstance. This appreciation of same coming from teleplays and cinematic narratives that seemed to corral the emotions of the surrounding population in general. It might have officially been called consensus in the daily declaration of events and socially acceptable notions that were sold as appropriate. He sat in his lounge upon the old threadbare saddle alone in his lounge. The gravity of this unrelenting condition of solitude descending upon his consciousness finally collapsing any fantasy to the contrary.
The soccer field seemed twice the size as he could remember it. He recalled that he had played soccer in high school during gym class and had been anything but stellar. Now he seemed enlisted as a coach in a Summer time program at a nearby park district. The ball was served from the center of the field and immediately shot over his head towards the boundary of one of the streets that served as the ultimate boundary of the park. One of the players at that far end booting it back once again overhead until it seemed in a position relatively equivalent but in the opposite direction. Something within him sank like a flag being pulled down in early surrender. He had doubts that this job would last more than the afternoon given the fact that his present level of physicality was obviously no match for the youthful leg strength of those that had been put in his charge to mind. The other coach now running in a lateral direction towards the side of the field he felt his rubbery legs wobble as he made his own pathetic attempt to catch up to the orb. The other younger fellow’s lack of speed a sign of the man’s sarcasm in the fact of the pathetic lack of performance of his older rival. Seeing this for what it meant the older scorned pair of legs picked up speed as if they now had a life separate to the body and head that bobbled about atop them. Their distant rival in the younger coach resuming his normal vitality and stepping up his pace as a result of this display and easily reaching the ball first to boot it far away back towards center field out of reach of his older rival’s renewed efforts. The impossbility of the situation fell upon the deposed sexagenarian like a wet woolen blanket.
The failure felt in one scenario seemed to bring on contemplation of yet another. One calling into focus a dismal area bordering a place outside of town by a main railroad trunk line. A no man’s land evidencing decades of toxic and careless dumping of castoffs that had the relative appearance of destruction one would have quickly associated with the worst sites of world war carnage. It was here that the man found himself newly arrived standing on the gravel by the rails. The only cited goal still clearly posed in his being was to traverse this area before he would be spotted by hostile parties. This inhospitable region having its own indigenous residents that as one might expect were as unwanted and disgruntled as himself. His presence in this lawless section presenting a convenient scapegoat for them to enact his revenge. His traverse of the many gullies fraught with sucking empty bucket covered tar pits that he barely found passage to skirt around disconcerting as the pressure of unseen eyes bore down upon him. Rapid tiptoes across rotting planks to shifting sandy ridges that softly gave way under his feet threatening to cant him forward in a manner that my lead to a tumble into the muck of a pit of uncertain composition. Whole sections of savaged walls of residential building including banks of wooden sash segmented of window glass stood as partitions blocking rapid progress. The notion of him being followed by hordes not far behind him growing ever evident. The possible luxury of taking an instant to stop in mid course to turn about and view the situation in that direction too wasteful of the slight chance that he might still outdistance them. On and forward he stumbled and slipped irregardless of his mounting conviction that all this effort would still result in his being easily being overtaken. Gone were the self inscribed fantasies of the inadvertent hero that he felt himself innately capable of being. His own vulnerability so painfully apparent in a likening to that of a field mouse being pursued by an owl. The growing flutter of his own heart within his chest now impossible to discern from feathers softly beating rapidly and hard just above yet not quite further back.
The chimes of the wall clock rang with their usual annoying precision. Another artifact that he had refused to disturb from the storehouse of family possessions that stood in for otherwise long lost traditions. His neck cracked a bit as the tight muscles surrounding his spine propelled his mighty cranium slowly forward and upright. The room was still dark but by the reckoning of the dim glow from outside several hours might have past. His sojourn to that other unstable ever changing world of dreams had as usual been unexpected and rocky. He rotated his head about a bit in both directions and stretched both arms upwards into a diagonal V to stretch out the kinks in his back still otherwise at rest slouched upon the sofa’s brace of pillows. Though the darkness of the room was only occasionally interrupted by tiny pinpoints of random LED’s as well as vertical glimpses of the The notion of the solitude ensconced within the limbo of a formless remote universe being challenged by sensations of cold drafty air and the rush of its warmer rival issuing from vents at ceiling height dispensing with same. Leaning forward out of his static repose he shifted his view to the murky horizon peeking up over the bottom sash of the window. Existence such as it was still remained. Only the accompanying dismal circumstance of the fear that it associated with was gone. He was in a state of neutral unencumbered being his usual troubles and concerns put to rest. His body as a singular instrument very aware of the exact position within the knowable universe of man. The question of hierarchy now a secondary matter. He was still very much alive and that was all that mattered.
It was obvious. And maybe painfully so? Obvious that my era and the perspective of the gender description that went along with it in terms of the critical theory that went along with its description was not in vogue. Rounding the corner into the classroom where I had been allowed to sit in was fraught with the usual combative possibilities of being set upon by both student and professor in consort who might at any point declare the zone safe by demanding the immediate exclusion of my presence. I imagine that just the act of opening my mouth aloud with a simple question no matter how politically correct or innocent was potential dynamite. So I sat through the lecture portion in silent bright eyed attentiveness seemingly accepting of any and all propositions offered. I showing no evidence of any hostile inner suffering in silence due to propositions advanced that quite expectedly demeaned my own sex as the price of the current currency of identity politics based truth. The room itself set up as if some great round table empty centered arrangement now where my position by the room entrance looked diagonally far across what instantaneously into an extremely large mattress with tightly pulled white sheets. My ideological adversary peering back at me with an inert emotionless as if prepared to be nonplussed by and of the expected responses that my outward cliche would no doubt attempt to pass off by way of awkward attempts of guile. Instead, I offered a full uncompromising acceptance of all the points of her lecture with the caveat that I pose a line of questioning about defining my own dilemma as an artist. Since the resultant silence seemed to suggest that there was no outward objection to this as it was assumed that I would hang myself anyway with the same old hierarchical male prejudices I began voicing my inquiry.
Considering that all art was functionally equivalent despite any sophistication of technique and reducible to the expression of the previous personal experience of uncounted numbers of those that had come before the notion of Post-Modernism’s ad hominum’s in service of a general group based dimension overshadowed the importance of the creator of the same. Did not this create a crisis bound situation with the ego of the artist that took on an ideological dimension that could not help reflect a negative individual based political reality that was too often predatory in disparaging a minority due to ingrained prejudices? Given this being a reality how was a given male individual able to offer their body of work as valid in the face of being seen as a potential insurgent to the grand sceme of a society that was attempting to adjust for the past ideological biases? Should I as an artist abandon my own progression as being same for the fact of this undeniable truth? The silence that my carefully posed question floated upon in slow motion making it across the wide gap of white damask lingered for a while. I imagined at one point that there may have been no intention of addressing it though it was obvious that it had been carefully posed in the context of the current politically Leftist perspective. Yet after a pregnant pause of what seemed a number of minutes of indifference my mistresses words in respose came back towards my direction. Though not kind to me directly as an individual in the sense of acknowledging my own individual stake in the conversation there was a larger narrative posed that took on a proposition that suggested a universality of purpose as being a predicate. A litmus test of values where self expression by myself was permissible if it acknowledged the source of my efforts intent as being respectful and no more important than the efforts of any other artist. That as long as I fully surrendered title to any dominance as a white European male showing deference before other group identities that my kind had proven a history of creatively overwhelming then what I offered could be considered as an acceptable artistic expression.
As I watched her in my own respectful earnest silence I could not help but feel a certain degree of worshipful eroticism coming forth from within. Something ad odds with her outward physical semiotics of dyed pussy hat pink faded coloring of her hair or the ‘uber’ hip resale store glad rags. Something that by the fact of her terse somewhat extended long response to my own carefully chosen words suggested some inquisitive curiosity. A characteristic unconscious animal attraction come of being petted and despite being naturally hostile to the owner of the hand doing so enjoying the nature of the verbal transaction. It seemed equally curious that her outer third wave Feminist demeanor that previous to this situation could have only been expressed in a dynamic of being lesbian now seemed indescribably softer. As she continued the classroom slowly transformed. The center portion of the room being a boudoir and the two of us now locked in a sort of coitus not so much expressed in the physical as a common didactic that was locked together within the sheets of this grand central mattress. Time like wine getting away from us both the two of us finding ourselves in a verbally compromised morning after of trying to silently reconcile to ourselves what we had respectively given up as opposed to what we had come to share. Thanking fate that the student body previously about the classroom had graciously disappeared before we became engaged thus in such intellectual intimacy. How odd it seemed that such ideologically diametric opponents could come to share such explosively joyous intimacy. Yet, that was, after all, the wonderful timeless magic of animal human nature.
The turkey dinner stunk. He sat in the easy chair finally relieved to be sitting. The marathon of two days had come to a climax. Early perhaps, but all the same exhausted. The drill was to be some sort of sentimental ritual of fond holiday remembrance. Recollection of times past when Christmas dinner was a regular event. An event that sometimes felt like the experience was becoming overly trite. But in light of the passing of a decade and a half had returned to the status of beyond extraordinary. Unfortunately, the noble attempt had been a failure. Not a total failure though. The turkey report four days previous stated the possibility of an outbreak if Salmonella ridden turkeys. And so he had put in the freezer when the frig seemed to have a slight off odor. Later it was apparent that the smell was from a poorly chopped red onion. The result was a certain level of insecurity as to whether his efforts to thaw in twelve hours before that after testing various scenarios from washing in tepid water and chipping away ice from the interior he was risking a waterlogged bird with all the natural juices removed. It seemed at that point it couldn’t cook right. But miraculously with a liberal transfusion of butter and thyme with a few rosemary sprigs and lime interposed apple slices in its chassis.
Where he went wrong was his timing. The two Pyrex dishes of bread dressing being perfectly cooked and set upon the burners on the stove. But to his mind needing to stay warm until the point of serving when he came back from a prearranged brunch. The minutes ticking down, he dumped the two of them back in the oven with the turkey. All the way there he knew he had made a mistake. Little did he expect that the contents of both pans would turn black as a cinder! Things seemed to go downhill from there. By the time he had everything in control enough to serve himself half of it was barely edible. The subsequent cleanup of the many greasy pots, pans, utensils as well as dishes of all sizes was prophetic in scale. Now of course that world had all been restored to a former sense of prior order. One that had been in force as set by the original owner of the utensils. He had tried their use and had found a new respect for the quiet dilemma shared each year by his dear departed mother. Her expertise had been honed to razor sharpness at that point when the small family had been installed in its first new house. A one story mid-century suburban property that sat tabla raza in a brand new subdivision that had been carved from a tract of former farmer’s field. The center of town persisting to declare itself as remaining part of a bygone era when Cyrus McCormick had them among his best customers in the heyday of bountiful crops corn or wheat. Now it served as a canvas for all their dreams to erase the hopelessness of an terrible economic depression and the war that had been waged in part to defeat it.
Some of these current utensils served as important artifacts in the entertainment rituals that his two parents put forth to attract the envy and admiration of other’s of their own generation. Siblings of my mother and my father’s mother, stepfather and half sister. Those few good years when they were allowed to demonstrate their coming success that less than a half decade would elude them. One by one these sets of merry making holiday tools were deposed to storage in the back of cupboards or redefined into more mundane uses for carrying on everyday existence. Some had been handed over by his maternal grandparents and provided lasting utility as a backup for others more modern but of a lesser quality. Thus many had earned a certain nobility in his mind as veterans from former eras of celebrations that were now nothing more than the inference of old phantoms, His weariness had led him to retire not very long after the setting of the Sun on the far horizon past the apartment’s vertical blinds. He had fallen into a stupor barely able to keep his balance as he staggered to the bedroom with the intent to turn in early. The fast erratic heartbeat of drum synthesizing the aura of amplified electric bass suddenly shaking his chambers. Somewhere below or above voices were now raised in unrestrained joyfulness. Some of them perhaps as foolishly careless and free as those of his own parents had been in their heyday. The cycle of the hopefulness of life was playing itself out once again in his vicinity just out of reach yet clearly evident.
The silence about the bedroom woke him up gently to the somber droning of the melancholy of some Middle European symphony composed in the latter half of the previous century when the horrors of the second great war were still fresh. The booming music conducted by the concrete and its sudden choruses of ebullient joyfulness now gone as if they had merely a passing folly of his imagination. The impressions currently leaking from his rising consciousness telling of a solitary old codger that had joined the party. But the party had been transposed to another place and time in an appreciation of the world as it might have been nearly a hundred years back. The joyfulness of a candy emporium or bakery with fresh newly baked odors and muslin banners and tapestry’s declaring the imminence of a new year. Smiling female faces ripe for the play of mind boggling word games and the reward for the right guess in decorative party favors. Celebration and unbounded happiness having no reason beyond its appearance in the moment. His own white whiskered bald pate’d avatar pointing to the ceiling with an impish grin declaring to the entire party,”What is another name for cupcake?” His consciousness now regained within these opposing symphonies playing each in their respective low volume and he laying cat-like and rested beneath the coverlet diagonal upon his bed. Had it all been a dream he wondered as his eyes rolled slowly towards the passage door of the bedroom. The dim glow of Christmas resting warm upon it dimly reflected by relay from that still illumined effigy within the next room. The faux armature of a small tree packed with all its old family trinkets casting its still brilliant old burning memories forth from this passage of another Christmas. It’s heritage now resplendent in the first hours of the commencement of a new day soon to come to pass.
Somehow it didn’t feel like Christmas? He sat by himself in the recliner staring forth at the warm glow that the multi-colored filaments cast from their spiral wrap about the figment of the imagination called a tree. The old familiar prints lay silent and immobile upon the wall ahead in the dimness. The inside of each of their frameworks suggesting something familiar and recognizable. A cast of unrevealed characters resting below them on the deep shelf just below where a forest of pictures and artifacts played hide and seek with the eye. He nodded to himself ensconced in the hum from the two decade old refrigerator working hard in the apartment’s small kitchen. The silence recused further by the infernal pedantic precision of the old pendulum swinging wall clock. A small knock from the larger presence of the two and then the timepiece had won the battle and he could only hear it and himself. What was there to worry about? Though it was hard to conceive of it his child had outlasted many an adult? Another distant family member had just bit the dust the week before. And he was a decade and a half younger! Health in its most relative of forms was his curse. Sure there were plenty of small annoying conditions pasted upon his physical being like a collage. But their sum total was still inconsequential. In any case the prospect of his own demise was not what concerned him. The immersion into a growing abyss of loneliness did.
It appeared that while he might have broken a heart or two along the way he had more generally disappoint many more. So much so that his mailbox had dwindled down to an occasional recipient of holiday cheering. His lack of prosperity certainly not inspiring much interest in the female of the species. His few male friends having departed long ago into marriages, children and their own heart attacks. Not many cared to recall his name these days even with the prodding of the holiday season in full swing. So many dim faces bubbled up into his consciousness these days that bid him recall their names. One mystery mentally solved dragging up another visage along with a brief silent scenario of their association long past. The chimes out of sight to the left sounding a ringing three in their singular carillon toppling this interlocking lacy pyramid back into his dense skull. The resultant impotence of absolute silence once again stirred by the pendulum’s measured click. The muffled hum of occasional distant traffic far outside rising for a moment and then driving off leaving him to the empty amphitheater of his thoughts. Aside from the colorful light displays one might have thought it as being as dully resplendent as any other night. His head now self-consciously scanning the ribbon of the horizon outside that his reclining posture on the chair allowed. Nothing but the same old pinpricks of far off twinkling man made light.
The child within him opening his heart to detect what unfathomable presences might be in near proximity beyond the scattered prospects that his eyes registered in surround. Nothing? The sketchy events of the day prior being the only in resolve of his internal visual screen. The failing light of the Winter Sun approaching it apses as he walked in the cold air upon the sidewalk down the seemingly inexhaustible row of mid century ranch houses. One out of three attempting some acknowledgement of the season upon the front lawn or the front window. The whoosh of heat pouring forth suddenly like the spillway of a miniature Grand Coulee dam. There was so much to distract one when the physical body had been stirred from sleep! Unconsciously his fist closed and the tightness that its internal tendons woke him to the fact of their equally dismaying presence. The fine shadows of striations upon his aging skin on the back of the hand and wrist only softening but not fully going away. It was curious but he didn’t feel that old? His gait though not a match for those youngsters of barely twenty still maintaining its own internal peppy clockwork precision. Surely whatever fate was waiting for him as that right leaning bookend shoring up the continuing volumes of daily minutia that made up existence had not come to an end. One might be signaled at least in some prophetic Hollywood fashion by glimpses of a glowing or a holiday sprite if it was?
One again the tiny cat’s claw of his conscious mind scratched lazily at the question of the purpose of his own personal experience of existence. As a recent infant brought to some degree of sentience he had rued the passing of his two progenitor’s one day thinking that he must surely pass on before them. What did he know of such things then beyond a vague broadcast notion of instantaneous cartoon finality? Life seemed an impossible circumstance without them? Now sitting on the other side of the mountain he considered that the crowds of humanity that had intervened along his way had only caused him to be glad that the bulk of them had tread off to their own sense of mortal fate and not dragged him along with them. He bore no grudges that came quickly to mind. The long absence from such daily felicities had softened whatever past frictions that might at a former time been naggingly apparent. Peace on earth and good will to all men! His own unspoken suddenly chimed. The resultant silence that this comment expecting to summon within his thoughts instantly shattered by the external growl on an anonymous V8 growling noisily and grumbling loudly off into the hush of night. His eyes raised them self up to the ceiling but with no apparent desire to signify any evidence of broken respite. The world had so long ago descended into an annoying place that he rarely had to e energy to pay it too much mind. All his own accomplishments along the way having reciprocally been simply as trivial to the outside world’s regard as this unexpected distraction. A pop of a bubble recklessly loosed in a tub of warm soapy water.
Somewhere he fathomed there surely was another that was calling his presence to them? Maybe more than one? The habit of a long irrepressible pipe dream stating that for everyone there would one day be someone. The many potentially possible ‘someone’s’ of his long past by this point safely taking on a cinematic dimension that was indeed safer than the human sort. All plots being theoretically a sequel to the initial ones they served the fancies that would suit the audience as part of the bargain of a continued interest in the next one. What did his ancestors do before such things existed? Count the wizened skulls of long past ancestors tossed about in shadowed corners by a fire lit smokey cave? Such musings leading one back to the static credos of Platonic gospel that stated one could never break their own chains to see more than these shadows. What then was human existence but a play of passing light and shadow upon an uneasy screen? That imitation tree festooned by the many aged family artifacts pretending to recall past joviality a dismal failure. What could be recovered from the ubiquity of the present that could be of utility to one’s unmet desires? You could after all be asleep in so many ways only to wake up to late to the glaring fact of it! the problem was that how could one tell? His head turning slightly as another growling engine just outside again making its escape into the night. The last of the Christmas crowd in his building was making its final farewells and speeding off back to their own abodes.
Another low deep throated startling rumble suddenly deposing this notion. No evidence of earthquake or explosion rocking his habitation bringing him to the conclusion that another plane load of late arrivals was ascending to destinations unknown. What then of him. He was his own Plymouth rock still awaiting a Pilgrim. Some ceremonious delegation long expected upon his shore but found to be running a bit later than he could ever have conceived? The need for positives rattling off such sentiments rather than accept a more lagging conclusion. He felt his neck crackling slightly as he shifted about in his chair. The weariness of the hour was placing its claim upon him. That was the wonder of this thing called consciousness? One never knew if they were the dream or the dreamer? An idle thought indecipherable from one more long-winded supposing gravitas. Which was the more potent version suggesting the most accurate view of things? The body after all had the last word both by its infernal animal impatience and its eventual proclivity to final decline and unavoidable termination. A tough act to attempt to follow with one’s storehouse of accumulated disappointments and exasperation’s. The tree still sat there with its colorful display of pin points setting their glow upon the old familiar shapes in picture frames suggesting old familiar faces upon the wall. The artifacts below them unmoved by the transitory nature of thought in its affinity with a passing thunderstorm. Another holiday would pass and lead of the continued banality of the necessity of everyday concerns mapped out over another coming year. Fate in the end having the say as to when this repeating cycle would come to its ultimate conclusion. Something that the man was already familiar with and in a similar manner continue to come to know. It would be a touch act to follow.
Here I lay in this rumpled bed in the midst of dark unknown like four-hundred million plus little known dots littered across the landscape. My only wish is to not have my final curtain call be despoiled and deemed a failure. For I have burned out it seems like an old light bulb. Something that is inevitable after all considering that humanity is merely a tik and a tok of a swinging arm. One that though seeming tireless must come to a standstill in the end. It is the nature of the universe to give and then take away.
It is safe to speak when there is no one about to hear the different fallacies that one holds onto with dear life. Those things that forgive but never explain. Those things that elucidate but never tempt fate. Yes!, I could have been somebody! But for whom? For that rambling current known as society? Would I be any better off forgotten after my heyday than any other luminary that had been used as a mortal cross to be worshiped for a while and then discarded within a dusty basement. Ah yes, it’s better to lay here amidst the shrouds of tomorrow as they descend from the air so graciously in a billowy chlorine bleached fantasy. One of perfection in clean houses that are a simply matter of a single digit upon a single digit upon the lever of a spray bottle. What else can one hope for? What else can one desire but perfection? Perfection and eternity! However, check with the man upstairs before turning in your over coat ticket to make sure that the proper is doled out in an appropriate fashion.
Believers! What do believe in beyond belief itself? A notion that forms and elite in your imagination. One that you belong to. And perhaps, no one else. A set of preconceived notions? No doubt! Something to act as a bulwark against chaos? Of varied experiences that will surely come to be. How destabilizing to be at the vagaries of other fellow human beings. In the belly of the beast being bustled about. Thinking some how that your diligence and industry is getting you somewhere. When in fact you are the bottom feeder. The dejected class. The group in an affinity that spread like wheat paste is spread thin upon walls papered over with foolish notions. The legacy of the fathers and the sweet harmony of the best wishes of one’s mother all cemented together. All to what end? To what purpose beyond eventual and ultimate futility in a rhythm and rhyme of continued banal fantasy.
A mystery of male and female. The uterus is a house where many times no one is at home. And the fascination of the male seems forever put up to docking at that door. Most time to hear a hollow sound. And to come with the bright idea that his seed alone can fill it. When in reality there are many room storehouse many men’s seed. All to bring out another, possibly, like one’s self. Possibly a male? Or, possibly a female! There is no third party. It is only a delusion of society that can create other genders and try to make them stick. What a worthless useless strange game of let’s see what I can get away with this week! Powerless men seem to want to squeeze and poke and grab. To spread and push and penetrate! But what will they find at the end of the day but a flabbier more fearful sense of themselves. Stalwart, perhaps? Yet ever needy and demanding. “Be careful young man of whom you choose!” For you might get someone as perverse as yourself. And then what? The most immediate mystery of the dual nature of the biped. Who is right and who is wrong? And how can it ever be solved or patched up? That is an ongoing dilemma.