A demoralizing previous day filled with overwhelming evidence of one’s own shortcomings. Then topped off with the the absurdity of unrestrained naked self-interest of others. The limit reached, of newly imposed mind numbing intervals, in weekly interventions awakening at night as a result of daytime inconsistencies providing fodder to the pen for this short manifesto. So completely exhausted by all of this that the body answers in dormancy with a long list of rapid fire sequence of colorful somnambulant impossibilities so insane that they become comical. An older corner of the city as neighborhood to a corner dwelling of two or three stories that is considered as one’s own habitation. Then suddenly to find one’s self continually accosted by supposed friends whose occupation is to repeatedly show up to confront you just for the fun of it. Again and again, that same glowering visage of their’s stuck face to face in yours. You look forward to returning home to escape and find some peace within your abode. Then you find that its front door has been breached by strangers who have a party in progress and they won’t allow you to enter your own place.
So you stumble back into the street but now you find it a rain soaked muddy morass that is almost impassable on foot. And then your have to stagger forth and hope to find the next available ‘nowhere’. A building that looks like it might serve that purpose is now apparent at the end of the street. Or so you’ve been told? This is your new residence! You make your way through its main entrance and find it has more in common with a college dormitory. The mixed identity of its erratic decor has growing pains combining facets of a ‘big box’ discount store with a saloon. A cacophony of voices at four spot tables with captain’s chairs. The chaos held back by railings along walkways guiding the meandering throngs of frivolous minded youths a mere two steps higher above others just below frolicking about. An elevator way over to the left by the wall a scratch built manual affair straight out of the pages of the old wild West. Beside it a descending stairwell constructed by architects that design ancient castle bell towers. And you follow along with the borrowed conclusion that the parties as known that convinced you are at least deserves a good college try to be proven correct.
So you descend in circular fashion down the angular treads that soon are befouled by great gobs of fresh dog do do! As if inundated by an entire pack. And then, a hop skip and a jump further, a skinny white unhealthy looking young male blurts out just ahead of you that his tiny dog is house broken. The next thing you know he is kneeling in the stuff playing patty cake with it. So the outstretched fingers of his hands are covered in shit! And know you understand a football linebacker’s wish to avoid the possibility of contact at all costs. The route of escape at the bottom of the stairs opens up into the vast openness of a department store disguised as an art gallery. The collection of items on display enigmatic to your own generation and you try your best not to knock into them as you ditch your pursuer. You look down at your last pair of pristine gray Nike’s that are now victims of your recent travel through the mine field of dung. The dilemma of of how to resurrect them fresh in your mind so that you don’t have to suffer the stigma of being full of it. Now off your game, and banging into surrounding anomalies of doubtful utility then backing off unexpectedly encumbered by their parts and not wanting to dismember so as not to offend some errant ‘artist’ with your awkwardness. Stumbling forth again trying to find some clear corridor with which to make your escape . . .
[the dream muses on into the day]
. . . a homogeneity of culturally sanitized globally accessible worker ants fully replaceable like cogs. Where businessmen once joked back and forth to each other recounting gaffs committed by the lesser segments of general humanity, now under the reigning dictate of the iron-handed Political Correct, they must only dare to disparage themselves personally: or face the consensual wrath of the community! This now serving as the most useful form of prologue to cement working relationships. The end result sounding like some form of perpetual infernal complaining. A small tenacious neighborhood cafe where one still can taste the daily outlay of fresh baked goods made from scratch prepared on premises. One of the few reigning little dinosaurs to contemplate while sampling its cuisine while mulling over so much that has been lost to bygone times long past. So ridiculous this often used term, “Progress”, as a cover for the contemporary concept of immediate ‘usefulness’ to bolster artifice in order to hide an ever growing scarcity that too many now endure. Too easy to count one’s self as an old hand at making tough decisions of the type that the younger generations are yet to experience first hand but in a much shorter time most assuredly will. A new culture that prides itself on stumbling over the dust of once mighty castles only to construct tissue thin fantasies suggesting their own tales self-mastery to serve as their own social bulwarks.
“Une très jolly ensemble!” Round hips supporting an otherwise fragile frame arm in arm with a tall aging string bean moseys up to the counter of a cafe. The gray beard companion a cross between the intellectual and a ragged old straw man. A perfect old couple! The inclination to be bold with a stranger overcoming one with this enlightenment. The modern intervention of once new ballads of the nineteen-sixties having an overwhelming power over the present. Commencing a mental retreat to one of those few the marbled halls of Classical music based culture still remaining. A place where silence is often celebrated in the progressive use of pauses in counterpoint to crescendo. Still in the pre-game portion, the house’s Mr. Page Turner strides across the near horizon with greet personal gravity. Then returning a a few instants later in a curtain call to see if his little act had been noticed by the sparsely filled gallery seats of an otherwise empty auditorium. This will change in barely forty five minutes. After a while the nasal inflection expressed in a sophisticated tone of verbal prancing about commences to drone on about what is already printed upon this day’s handout. The gray haired guardian of the back gate totters forth on aged ankles with an outward decorum that had once counted upon perfect balance. The scene overall recounting a fantasy of an encounter going back nearly a hundred years bringing forth the tales of an aging actress Gloria Swanson. One of her character’s most favorite unexpected mantras being that, “All men are scum!“.
Random impressions springing forth from all corners of he hall. There being no one in existence that can appreciate the beauty of a youthful femme like an old man! One must wonder what remains of the same type of sentiments in the dry crust of aging dames? The en mass application of verbs serving as trendy modifying adverbs so as to twist the backbone of what once was considered core culture. A sharp sound check blast of the operatic pipes by the prima donna on deck giving a taste of what’s to come. Her outburst accompanied along by the e-Click camera anvil chorus. A country gentleman saunters with the folksy prominence of a Samuel Clemens sporting seersucker and suspenders. A small contingent of out of towers fill the rows of seats just ahead. Boys too sensitive to ever be mistaken for real men chatter away with their inspired sense of authoritarian e-Knowledge. The apparitions of all those that may have fathered such enigmas sitting in the row just ahead. One can only wonder at the level of disappointment that they must silently endure? The evidence of their regret embodied by an advanced stage of rot in one of their offspring who has become indistinguishable from a female though possibly a male? The result of an unconscious terminal love affair with an overprotective mother. A repeat offender in the form of a pathetically lost soul pads in looking for her beloved Aunt Bea. The few remaining spots filled in by old regulars. Voila! The hall is unexpectedly filled!
The lisping introduction by the hall’s sergeant at arms and after a short pause the distant voice from with the radio announcer’s box introduces the audience at home to today’s performers.
The presentation of voice that follows melting hard hearts. Yes, Schubert yet again! But with an uncustomary sensuousness. A voice put forth with unusual power and grace. And obviously an old hand at this kind of performance. Her second selection setting forth those secret inner desires of the feminine. An elucidation to the awkwardness of he love struck male. So much for culture, the two rows of tourists now unceremoniously rise and exit the auditorium. Unconcerned with viewing small details like the sublime tightness of the performer’s form as she summons intimate emotions from her depths normally only shared between a pair of lovers. The flourish of an amour no longer obtainable in the real world. Her hands and fingers miming the drama behind the lyrics most appropriately. The only true measure of love that wretches that ones like myself are still likely to enjoy. An exceptional performance played to the hilt delivered like all classic femme fatale’s. My eyes tear up as my heart smiles. The dagger of her art piercing it. Drowning in the luxury of the blood pulsing in excitement within my own breast. AS if I were in expectation to meet her after this to sip champagne from her soiled slipper. Her voice continuing on explaining the silent forces of womanhood that men never seem to comprehend. While I contemplate my own contrivances with those many Mary Astor’s, reminding them that they will be taking their own falls. This exhibition of talent concludes with the notion that in some way I have fallen in love by suggestion with these dulcet tones.
The power of a common unrepentant sneeze from the audience breaking the spell.