The hobby shop of youth basement bound in dream scapes visible fused to the lower level of the village commons of my old university. The revealed enigmas of now familiar authors made clear in offered snippets of their latest works. Selective short subjects of much larger dramas in progress as of yet un-congealed. My swelled head as usual the stumbling block to immediate understanding. I am forever guilty of purposely not using basic modes of vernacular out of fear of appearing banal. So terminology must become an instrument to dissect the reader’s mind so as to implant a more precise understanding by appropriate adjective and precise verb to offer these thoughts.
Prowling the reconstructed precincts of what once was re-glorified into the contemporary sense of paradise as one only appreciable to the young. A Post-Modern nightmare perhaps? All seem so easily self-enrolled in the fly trap of flashy fantasy to notice the plastic under the shiny brass. A glitzy Automat here or there offering instant gratification at double or triple their grandparents might have paid. And ever for the artfully presented sense of less! Industrial paucity. Nothing resembles individual effort beyond a sweatshop assembly line to re-invent the world in style but leave out the substance to save on costs.
Given the inconvenient advance of age on my part, how can I hope to expect more than simple exile by the bar imprisoned like an infant in a high back wooden chair could easily double visually for the superstructure of a garrote? The only consolation in this in having the presence of mind to not be taken out too far for the usual ride in terms of my line of credit. This privilege being reserved for those who might have been my grandchildren had I fallen for the linear promises of success offered in my youth.
This prettified virtual work camp offering no satisfaction beyond an epiphany in an initial instant before the drinks kick in. The rest of the experience being a waiting withering amidst commercial oblivion. Pygmies designated for abuse by their financial betters. Alcohol the great leveler. Tattoos up and down the arms and abdomens the signifier of the current age. A generalization of a slave society in inadvertent patent denial of the fact that they are in bondage. One even tighter than all previous that have come before. Having paid for my seat and been freed of dirty dishes I will digress to the events just prior.
Let my reflect upon my new acquaintance with Mr. Jo Jo Popiel, keyboardist extraordinary. Aficionado on the topic of society from the bottom climbing up to the heights of a clearer understanding of all things Ojay. Green line professor of the sixties and seventies, his calling card a persistently firm handshake. Perpetually optimistic about himself and the inflexibility of his opinions to casual change. That perpetual pride of those who start life in the underclass reaching high to that first rung of ever elusive meteoric success. Thank God for the sake of his soul that he never achieves the degree of same that are catapulted into a shit storm of Hollywood money! He is someone worth knowing. On the the Levant!
A sign along the boulevard to the lake giving me my first lesson of the outside world that I left so long ago. “MOX!” the sign portrays. An evil smug smiley face confidently expressing the dark spirit empowering the place. “Beauty before age“, being the epitome of this age. Do I play my second act Falstaff well? Pretensions of uselessness feigned before the young whipper snappers who would use my head for a bowling ball. Still ever ready to turn the corner only to find the old standard clock high above much older though no wiser and now without arms. Thus time is rigorously admonished to stand still!
A note to my generation by those still in diapers that while we once said, “Yes“, to everything they are practicing their “No’s!” I think back to the conversation on the train and an inability remember the name of the pop singer Marvin Gaye. The man who satisfied that demand to the limit of his prior education. Would I had said, “The only smarts that stick are those earned feet firmly on the ground at street level!” The granite faced steel and glass towers grow like rock crystals. The incised letters on their lower footing stating self congratulatory elegies to their onerous sterility. Mute stone monuments in a much more active graveyard where the worms and carnivorous insects are housed daily during weekdays from nine to five. All things human removed from the joyful chaos of nature possible below the singular paucity of a treeline.
My own continuing narrative now reminded that my most famous role as the bête to the belle ends inevitably in my own unnoticed destruction. No hope of hope beyond an ignominious death and further emptied resurrection. How rare to be marching down Michigan Avenue and be witness to an unexpected violence. A woman in the guise of a tiger pouncing upon the driver within an automobile and then without hesitation attempting to literally tear him apart. Further on the destination of my pilgrimage reached in a simple huile sur toile upon a stately museum wall. Right next to the Piet Mondrian where it was said to be. Condensed super conformity notable for the fact that the artist over-layered one false start over another. The crush of brush strokes falling over the translation of the artist’s angst at being a member of the cult that has only historically wreaked destruction.
A living incarnation of the veritable same hovering his camera close overhead invading my airspace and then acting aggravated that I should have been so inconvenient as to have been sitting there upon the Museum’s bench to begin with. A game fit only for play by petulant spoiled children too used to getting their way from everyone they encounter. Imitated sophistication abounding in a thin artifice of crassly mimicked sophistication supported by unreasoning arrogance. Posturing for the summit of a hierarchy that does not exist. And just as easily taken for a ride outside these precincts for a lifestyle built upon their inherent gullibility to spend their way into the appearance of refinement. That little overloaded canvas singing out a melody of a long lost home containing the tribal memory of a resurrection of a broken temple from the past.
Rolling with the punch of a newly reconstructed overly hip Zion. Prices jacked to the max! The vainglorious generation in the reticule soon to know that when a woman has lost her looks she still needs more than a wallet to keep her warm. Nothing here left to ascribe to as having been once part of your own. Each day of simple recreation being shorter. Each day of constant struggle growing longer. Too many good ideas wasted and now no longer wanted.