Given that life seems so short when one is nearing what they are repeatably told will be the conclusion of the same there is a tendency to prolong existence that takes hold of anyone thinking themselves gifted with the gab of words incised upon the page. The aches and pains of seemingly withering limbs tossed off to some inevitable malaise that is built in to the human mechanism that though many feel may be radically altered inevitably catch up in a collapsing series of organic collapses and subsequent increases in mounting physical disabilities. The final chorus comes most times in a clairvoyant condition accompanied by a decent into solitude when all one’s adventures peppered by a healthy degree of irreconcilably cynical misgivings about what their eventual outcomes have led to. All coming home to roost within one’s waking consciousness demanding not simply a sense of closure but a public airing. As if by way of a declarative confession the positive aspects of these events might outweigh the unfortunate situations and acknowledge some assurance that their main protagonist has found their own sense of sainthood in the minds of an otherwise indifferent reader. How foolish is the ego when it’s child-like innocence is eventually converted to supplicate this solipsism when one is in the final grasp of this aged folly!
Setting off on the journey to explain one’s mortal ramblings over the course of what ever seem like unfathomable decades one must find the appropriate way stations of vivid memories. One’s that though they might not lead to any sensible definitive conclusion in terms of a judgment of character as a whole do at least provide a sense of navigation to pinpoint what might be possibly significant to the mindset of the protagonist. Some notable momentary excess on the part of the subject that stands out by way of an opportunity missed or a fatal danger narrowly avoided. Something that invokes a sense of fateful destiny that acts as a leveler for all human experience and stimulates an empathy along the lines of, “There but for the grace of God go I!” Where one starts this search provides a weather vane as to the general present tense focus of the autobiographer. Can there be some succinct exponent in a sentence or two as a starting point that, if it does not explain the character, does help in characterizing the type of journey that defines him? Can one be assured that some genetic trait as inherited from forebears mentioned at the beginning of too many tales is not the ready handmaiden of eventual fate? Or does the path traveled merely substantiate the notion of an empty cup initially void of substance whose true identity is wholly dependent upon what was poured in and enjoyed?
The waiting maw of the empty blank page stares back challenging the pen of the goon holding it to come up with something really good. What can one offer if they are honest to the process of revealing some all to obvious hidden truth if they do not take the plunge and risk mediocrity? The recounting of these incidents being raw flax from which a story must be meticulously woven. Taking a shovel to it? But even if it is plastic, and comes along with a bucket, it will not stop the shifting sands of intervening time to reveal what might have been gained or lost in those now distant foggy shores of early childhood. Maybe clean air and a sunny sky might provide a better solution to isolate some obvious experience that though it may be so noticeable it is too routinely overlooked because it is taken for granted? A random thought shifted by an unaccustomed observation that of itself is out of character to the normal repetitive cycles of the daily grind. Perhaps something that one has tried to expunge from their conscience but that bubbles back up to be periodically annoying? An outrage that one committed being ill advised at the time where common sense was ignored? Banality? Banality sells! Especially if it is tinged with humor or embarrassment that most normalized people can relate with. Whatever it may be it is a first step towards one’s eventual epitaph.
Then it came to me in a dream. One that analogized an event that had transpired in actual life wherein the two central players in my own existence had engaged me to move some disused items of furniture. The items mainly in question being older homely looking wooden bookcases from a locker in a small boutique within the basement of the fringes of a middle class suburb. The legs of an occasional passerby walking past the picture window mounted from shoulder level up to the low ceiling. My father always invoking me to do a service on behalf of my mother’s whim using me as a means to please her in a manner that I resented at the time. A situation that I was only fully able to comprehend in recent years long after both of their passing’s. Yet, what did this have to do with anything int he here and now. Too reliant upon the Internet as a source of both entertainment and companionship. Curious stories being simply that but having no baring in terms of my own experience of life. Where has the rational trailed off to amidst this constant deviation from what was once the norm?