If life is a deck of cards that is sorted and resorted. The same old cards after many years becoming well-worn and too obviously familiar. Only those few winning and losing hands remaining memorable and immediate to the mind’s eye. Some visions and feelings recovered on occasion. Venice beach Sun and the pier. That meandering path through the sand and all the early morning skaters. That old carousel housed within up high. Deep rich black and white overexposed tones lighting architecture no longer standing save in the darker corner of my mind. Stacked away with other memories in perpetual shadow of all things past. That endless ebb and flow of time’s relentless tides. All illusion now as if it had never been. These are the myths that lay at rest in the midst of night. Tinder waiting to be reignited like memory of past souls now departed. All so mysterious. All now gone.
The black woman had convinced the white man to lay flat across the top of several seats on the bus. Though she was not a hypnotist and this was not a public demonstration of her abilities there was equally no malice in employing him as her desk. It was a friendly thing. The two were not exactly strangers and this stunt was a hair brain scheme to travel froths neighborhood to her own so that he might innocuously study the difference in speech patters unobtrusively. The man had the idea that he could learn to speak as she did. To understand her by adopting long vowels and uncertain consonants. He could glean such things from her voice and then perhaps her voice would yield even more information. Maybe even create some form of understanding. Yet what was so hard to comprehend? He wasn’t of that culture or part of that culture.
My friend ‘S’ were in a nondescript section of a bedroom community outside a major metropolitan area with numerous ‘big box’ stores. On the basis of an unstated common purpose we both bedded down for the evening in a parking lot. This was not as unusual as it seemed as many others were taking advantage of the empty space upon the asphalt of the parking lot to retire for the night. Our portion sported the benefit of a desk with a chair that sat abandoned next to us. As I settled down to sleep a wind blew some random candy and cigarette wrappers by. Some of which were gathering around my sleeping bag near my face. I grabbed at some of them an crumpled them up and left them on the back edge of the chair which itself was tucked within the desk’s cubbyhole. Unfortunately with no wastebasket standing nearby to toss them into they would invariably fall back down and drift toads me again powered by the wind upon the pavement. This was irritating me even further.
At one point I made the mistake of handing the recovered flotsam to her which created unexpected ire on her part. She was taking the crumpled refuse from my own had but bucket brigading it back to the edge of the chair where it had just fallen back down again. At one point after this exchange had happened many times I testily asked her why she continued to do that? All I was expecting was that she might put these annoying items in a wastebasket that was in reach from her side. Her response being that didn’t know and it was OK if she wanted to put it back where t kept getting blown off of.
Some writers and poets in addition to their normal power of conjuring words were accustomed to handling their dirty business by calling upon by a sorcerer. Of course that is exactly what happened. And I among others was subject to meeting this person. Which of course had an inherent danger involved with it in itself. The location of this meeting was by spatial reference in a proscribed location in a public area. That might have been a commercial space? That part of the area where the person’s abode was in was not part of commercial space but seemed to be like a regular a personal domicile. A sort of assassin versed in spells. Some one who was a hit man who was brought in to do cleanup work. And in finding out about this person had to listen to their lecture wondering how dangerous to me in finding out about all this stuff?
The setting was a magnificently large open pit coal mine somewhere in the Siberian region of mother Russia. I was naught but another anonymous worker tasked to fulfill his quota of productivity. Being break time I trundled down the spiderweb of steel superstructure to reach the small kiosk of a store at its base that was set up for the convenience of workers who might wish to purchase more cigarettes or other sundry items without leaving the vicinity of the plant. One curious feature of this roughly configured stall/boutique being that each purchase over so many rubles brought a gift of a small piece of ceramic china. A covered cup with an intense pattern of red and green and blue. A design solely found only in the rougher regions of the back country. This incentive being offered and collected to the point that a factory must have been behind their distribution.
The chess game in the warehouse with the traditionally dressed Irish woman and her wool net shawl over her shoulders carried on. The old gal had me in a corner. Five players left on the board. A black Rook and a King. The final struggle coming down to a matter of a single move. Such things are the stuff of dreams these days.