The sequence began with everything in the room being out of focus. The usual relics so familiar about the room barely distinguishable in a haze while strains of a snippet of the Doobie Brother’s song lyric from ‘Black Water’ recycling over and over again in the head. Gray morning light adding to the muddiness of the tableau.
Then the room suddenly snapping into a clear focus reminiscent of years past.
Dark morning and the strutting back and forth of black African ghetto mama CTA motor femme lecturing the front cabin on the minutia of safety demanding universal attention from everyone on the car. Has someone gotten killed the night before and management is trying to do damage control on the early morning Rush Hour crowd. But the longer the harangue lasts, the more evident it becomes that this old black crow is simply exceeding her authority along with her station in life. Her all too official Black-Splaining goes on interminably for a period of more minutes than digits on one’s left hand. This sort of inversion of authority is yet another first on this banjo train from suburbia through darkest ghetto Africa West side Chicago to the headwaters of its downtown Loop. Another symptom of fatal urban cancer striking this post-Rustbelt apocalyptic metropolitan burg. My only comment in response to another building block of wisdom upon my own already too shaky Tower of Babel is that the entire pile of experience has left me with a lasting ever prevalent cynicism in terms of human nature. You only seem to encounter the worst though you are told that somewhere the opposite still most probably exists.
Call me Bushmills! I recall growing up with my own dramas of life affected by major motion pictures that my parents were addicted to attending during the early years of their marriage. Not surprisingly, I caught their disease. Even today I still cannot be sure who really raised me, Kirk Douglas or Jean Simmons or my own loving blue collar forebears? The different events of my own life sharing the same soundtracks of the latest crop of blockbusters. Starting with the symphonic blustering horns announcing some pageantry of Roman empire dimensions in horn and string ensembles but eventually dying down to Jazz based riffs advancing the inner souls of down to earth every-men. My idle thoughts transformed into scenarios of action based widescreen sentiments now hopes and dreams for a future existence no less exciting. My most intimate thoughts in some ways a lubricant to a toy-like existence that signified hope and possible fulfillment from an otherwise affected dream scape. Writing for its own sake alone. For an audience that doesn’t exist. That will never see! Blindness on a seesaw with sight somewhere upon a tightrope between possessing character and surrendering to futility. How many airport terminals and train stations have caught my most valuable moments in gazes back into that deep crevice of my own soul? Decades past where frequent missteps too often gave their way to indolence and gluttony that would then hold me in their sway.
How time and the unwanted accumulation of years transforms us into funny little people that have no possible relevance to our former selves as we once hoped to be. Old wrinkled faces of gray-haired former friends summed up by those bygone tunes melting conscious experience into melancholy. It is difficult to be an unwitting icon of times that never existed summoning a specious fiction of the past for the benefit of a world of youngsters that do not really know what they expect to find in the present. The folly as presented on the big screen making that fiction real. That old talent for observation translated to eye to hand control upon the blank page. Taking bits and pieces of magic and reassembling them to fill the emptiness of too many solitary hours. So much passes in the light of day! Only the present offers the condolence of things the way they should be! Some there making a career of barging into the affairs of others both on and off duty. It is the movement of the hands and eyes that attract the most attention. To properly set up the muse requires not just practice by knowledge but the desires of those that one wishes to impress and what makes them return. Love, danger, tempo, connection, intelligence, stupidity and fashioning a narrative that plods and unsteady existence on the tightrope between these opposites until ten minutes before the finish of the last reel. Movement to movement inferring what would otherwise be considered a mystery. The worship of mystery being more seductive in its appeal to more active minds who totter on the brink of possibly realizing.
Present a positive pleasant person that shows their appreciation of a shared experience if you want to leave a good impression in your wake. Sometimes an exercise in the formality of pretense. There are some people that only wish to experience what they feel are the pleasanter parts of the world and steer clear of the nasty or too challenging ones. They miss so much of the totality of life and become brittle like a glass ornament. Why do so many too willingly trade their own long term comfort for temporal wealth? Sleepwaking through life distracted by the uninterrupted passage of railroad cars full of goods heading their way to intercede with their aspirations? All concerns subscribed to incomplete open ended solutions in the fantasy of now. Yet impossible to recall any resolution in the next moment? To be able to strike a notably remarkable figure at all occasions suggesting that all is possible may be summoned from within goaded on by an undetected insecurity? You can tell by the inherent posture in the style of walking the degree of self-importance that is manifested in that individual.
Dreams presenting three situations but at the same time. The atmosphere presented by background music in the hall exposing my weariness. I started reading again when I found the book permitting. And the free license once again of drinking allowing a filling out of my middle betraying a fall into such bad habits. The red (haired) knight (female) of Augsburg (Chicago). Boink! Depleted of energy on the edge of the stupor of unconsciousness. This feeling shackles, even threatening to suppress further thought or speculations. This lumbering carcass of an animal pinning the rider not allowing him to make an escape. The naked courtesan online with her pendulous soft oversized breasts. Their incredible mass bouncing heavily elastically contradicting her otherwise supple slender dimensions. Twin udders being manipulated from afar by strangers paying a tab online to push a button powering an internalized pink plastic jelly donut lodged within her snatch. The vibrations from it causing her to undulate he most obvious proportions before a blog cam resulting in seismic tremors of a very fleshy dimension. The exploitation of her most intimate parts by indifferent participants encouraging her twin demons to mesmerize these customers who toss away their wealth in B.F. Skinner idleness to fulfill a Maslow hierarchy of unfulfilled persistent continued neediness.
The muse interrupted by a skinny pencil thin Jew storms unrepentant across the stage surmounted by his black velvet yarmulke like a Machiavellian prince. Out of season but in full command of the exhibition space, or so he thinks, of all he sees. Such is the nature of our times to allow an empire of spiders to take hold of our society and squander it. Female musicians sweep back their hair while male counterparts fluff their tuxedo tails. How would you feel if you had a those things tugging if you bent over? The clap of the profane begins for those tittles as the performers return to the stage. This exceptional quality of youth remaining ever impressive before it begins to sag and then to fall away. How many times can one tolerate uninterrupted coughing in a concert even if it is by ignorant Germans or paper rattling ‘half and half‘ privileged pseudo Negros? Part of the performer’s task is to provide absolute silence between the notes! What could be a more memorable artifact of the performing than an overly empowered accolade recognizing nice titties? If we must descend to the level of dumb animals then why not go all the way! That goddamn fucking Kraut is coughing again for the twentieth time! These fucking animals belong in a barn for despoiling the subtlety of the performance with their careless give a shit attitude. Could everyone affecting this hall please die of congestive heart failure now? No respect for the many years of hard practice and familial sacrifice to then have to contend with these uneducated baboons today!
A castoff into emptiness. The material world slowly rejecting him without a single sustaining fantasy. One to know one’s fate far less better. Too focused on the all engrossing self protection of strictly enforced anonymity. The need to find some scarp of happiness as a life preserving tool. Naked like old Crusoe without his wreck to plunder to sustain him. The description of desolation in a modern transitional era of a mind fucking global world utopia. Indifference, it fits the fiction of the remnants of that former past tense world lost in space and time that one can no longer afford. The images faintly flickering like dying fire light lost in the mute breath of early morning. Some take up more space than others. Other too quickly put their business on the street as a matter of dollars and cents. Sentiment in the expected artifice that professional morons make all too apparent around the campfire by tittering away at their own telecommunicated trivial nonsense. Other reciting loudly from their phones as if they haven’t left their living rooms. Vinegar expressions through this same old ghetto faces wrested from forgotten generations of their current most mortal enemies. Vacant atmosphere of shivering latent fears by those that refuse to mind their own business. Human heads stacked one atop the other on the totem pole of doubt. This is a reverberate sense of loneliness. That common disease that afflicts its hosts irregardless of their awareness of its presence. Looking up from this traveling coach to see the world’s reflections passing over the silhouette of anonymous self.
Music for airports. All the usual requests subject to availability. The younger family members not knowing any better. The resident male of the establishment having a decided resemblance with an Istanbul train conductor from the Turkish trunk of the Orient Express. A noticeable exhale from a nearby table that exhausts steam. The instant of a random gaze that might dwell within the delayed reminiscence of a precocious seven year old princess on the other end for several generations. Behind the ears the scrivener plays a prop in an unknown drama. A play no doubt on real life. How children can ruin the hips of an otherwise perfect figure for an entire life? How the mind can juxtapose all these disparate elements into something resembling the most obvious of muses! Beauty and insanity crowned by what appears to be reasonable obsessions. Elastic wallpaper busily curling through the ages. Egg tempera and gesso wizened expressions gone permanently sour. Petty annoyances from menstrual flow interrupting Star Wars expectation. Shadows where people once stood. Near proximity’s where the seer sat fading quickly past.
Time out on the cattle car back. Building after building, after building, after building, after . . .