Looking out on one black night sitting as usual by my lonesome. Some old out of date tunes playing, softly coaxing sentiment from an otherwise dry and empty stone. Yes! Even the densest of rocks have a soft center somewhere. The foreign paradise of another year newly bestowed before one waiting to be addressed theoretically as of yet undefined. All the years up to this point the sediment long congealed upon your back. The anonymous identity of that empty stone. Memories cannot support a real life. The surrounding blackness of a Winter night curling like heavy smoke about the flat universe of incandescent stars laid out in a city grid pattern before one. All manner of other souls equally divided by the custom of the night of never venturing out for a nighttime stroll after the official hour of curfew. The informality of that rule a matter not cited per say in any given law journal but a matter of popular observance. The chair from which this vista extends being my own chair. The sight of same clouded by the recent experience of a phone call by a long lost relative. The sound of his voice and his monologue disturbing the soil of the mass grave of a long departed notion of one’s family set to eternal rest in recent decades. Sharp flashes of uncountable incidents that collectively had brought me to this solitary pulpit. The congregation before me made up by phantom strangers summoned by rational thought saying that if reality presents the fact of their abodes then they must it follows be in residence. Tough of course far removed from any daily interchange. From any possibility of contact. Their absence proof of the theorem that outside of the family that is temporally bestowed, one is born alone and eventually dies thus. All the brief encounters along the way but temporal realities eventually destined to be laid to rest in the periphery that graveyard of one’s inconstant consciousness. For what is life really about over the long term but collecting little bits and pieces and assembling a tapestry of experiences that in the end say back to you the answer to the mystery of who you really are. For better or worse, wherever life leaves you. There you are.
This jumping off point where a simple story of a singular incident suffices to sum it all up noting that we are all in an eternal battle for survival. A spark tumbling off of the brazier skipping across the floor struggling to maintain the rapid fade of the heat and glow that it had just possessed the instant before. You would think that this might enjoin a universal chorus of all human creatures in the sort of unity that would inspire tight community? But . . . WE all know better. Society as it is known does not allow for such niceties. The ‘cynical’ plows into such notions as if an errant vehicle unexpectedly plowing through a store’s plate glass window in the midst of night. Something of an event in itself to remind you of just where things stand. Little melodies both cloying and nostalgic swept away like soup cans scattered off the shelf in every direction down the aisle before one. The conscious nature of orderly thought tasked in the near future with the sorting these remnants and attempting to decide which of those being still good to discard from those no longer salable. The gaps upon the displays looking to be refilled hopefully with new ones just as palatable. Maybe some golden oldies of yesteryear suggesting a desirable direction to pose to achieve one’s unrequited hopes and dreams. Age and bodily atrophy narrowing the chances of reaching that pinnacle of past success no longer in force. A pattern of society that no longer exists, save in one’s singular ability to recall it through the haze of intervening generations. The ever reigning pope of time slapping your hand away as such childish fantasies are no longer allowed. No! You are on a journey. A wagon train of strangers lost amidst the endless wilderness with only the sun rising from somewhere back East to each day zoom quickly past overhead to dart into blackness each night. The smell of your own lack of fit resources bitten by the taste of dry dust on the tongue. The animal encouraged daily forth by the tip of the whip being your own flesh poured into that mold of your own waking fantasies as encouraged by the cold hard rock of more city pavement. The conglomerate too vast and heavy to carry about in your pocket. An ink stained pen shield bereft of the writing instruments that left haphazard accidental scribbles on its dulled white plastic. The world on the proverbial string bouncing ahead vigorously unraveling before one. The hope of lifting a single finger to stop it being out of the question. Let those trumpets blow! Let go and lose control and roll to final rest. Cat or mouse, the game still remains the same. Chase your prey or shade your tail. Perhaps maybe both! The next day of the next week of the next month and there one is back to where one is starting at present. Such is life.