“Inside the house, a lightning rod use by way of an old TV antenna connected to a thick wire speaks!” – (dream)
The lively art of conversation stunted by ‘techno’ pygmies within the Michigan Avenue coffee house. That inherent unchanging impulse of human nature to try to connect directly with others quickly overcome by state of the art digital WiFi’d electronics. That underwhelming tension of play or spontaneous overture opposite of the current requisite reading zoom text based conversations. A deceptively easy atmosphere of calm. The culturally permissible aural rant of ghetto soul music blaring away on the internal network of loudspeakers within the house. Moan and groan toned art to no avail beyond the ongoing filibuster of petty satisfaction of not getting enough of what life has to offer for free. Dubious LCD messaging repetitive beneath the category of style first and style last and style all around. Message, if there is any. weak below the vocalization of style. The merely exhausted Pandora. The box is now forever open and the opiates dispensed. Why make a big ‘thang‘ out of nothing? “Les bijoux en fer sont toujours en or!” General demeanor of the encased populous? Mean as snakes! This current generation as pretentious in its overt semiotics as their inherent insecurity will allow.
Apparently, before the great silver metal Baal of the Chicago, a snow covered ‘bean‘. The fat girls are vexed? Concerned that my own inescapably insufficient conversational French muttered softly to my self has been heard! Far more worthy in the misappropriation of my nationality than in my wildest dreams I could ever have imagined!
That magnificently tall woman entering the overly tonally bright hall several tows ahead obviously a long lost distant cousin of the Annunaki? Spectacular though undoubtedly old as the hills. And what do I offer in exchange? Failing lungs and heart and a sore tailbone. Hopefully not having to share old man’s farts within the duration of the performance that is now imminent. Convoluted intestines a sign of a coming demise. But still alive in these land of the languishing ‘les ancien‘ with all their arthritic slowness and infernally slow care taken not to lose balance. Stooped shoulders and pot bellies floating just beneath the wispy whisky waves of oceans and oceans of sparsely combed grayed hair on balding pates. Here and their illuminated finger tips busily tapping away on tiny screens. Withered old men, old women, old farts. Symptoms of a dying race, a bygone era, of increasingly males visages replacing those once overtly female in a second glance. Estrogen’s slow slide giving way. The ‘hippopotamus’ as compared to the occasional youthful ‘mermaid’. Each in their way a particularly pointed source of attention.
How like Barbara who was for many years my own particular object of attention. But, in the end, simply an object of passing attention. Perhaps out of better judgment on both our parts? An unspoken love affair with an ever-present fear of failure ever upon the mind? Lifelong in general, at that! We each of us have are peculiar penchants that way. Complaints, complaints, complaints, from those behind the barrier of sidelong glances. A muse interrupted by the signifying of personal dissatisfaction every subject possible. Ones that make these two old ‘cunts‘ babbling not he other side of the aisle feel important. A three way eye bound silent conversation between announcer, master of ceremonies and performer, waiting for the show to begin with a cue from central casting. The man of the hour and center of the day’s performance and exceptional virtuoso on the well-tuned house ‘klavier‘. The inspiration of dance as filtered by Liszt into brilliantly performed tempo and style. Inspiration for the human soul the common currency traded within the terrazzo reverberance of the landmark auditorium. Visionary tainted malevolence momentary changed by the famine of life’s emotions briefly lifted. The failure of one noted by the other. The object of this hour’s attention building on his own success. Note drifting over note, like clouds at dusk. Key over key, dripping like a light Summer rain. His tempo demonstrated like well-experienced horsemanship advancing at a steady gait to a canter. Overcoming the usual cyclical nature of other performers who have warned that bench. Sweetness of melody par excellence! “Shhh!“, you old two biddies! Not a gutter dance from the waist up of flopping one’s young ‘tits’ about in a low cut form fitting black dress to garner praise. The play encoring one to rise above out of their own well accustomed poison.
Having loved too many girls from a afar, I am drawn to ‘Lady Barbara’ in the unfolding of reluctant memories that the third movement brings to mind. How convenient to thing of those that you once loved at a convenient distance of past eras? Those useless duels with rival suitors now decades later found dead. Equally self-serving that we will meet again in some place ahead far beyond mortal time. Above all her beauty shines blindingly within in both spirit and heart. And of course, falling upon my own burden of long held disappointment that has forever kept me down. To sit within this very same hall when twenty years previous I had failed. Failed as I later did in that Pagliacci mask of of half-hearted suitor for the lady’s hand. And still angst ridden by the despicable role I played unwilling within the final chapter of our association to commit all. Beyond chewing deeply into her for my own self-imposed frustrations with a final bite of scorn. A vainglorious identity bolted upon my own visage that sill inspires no forgiveness for my performance or for us both [the remaining portion of Piano sonata 32 in C Minor pours forth]. How can measure the power of long held regrets? So many crowed before the doorway to that final chapter known as one’s own old age. Their combined weight too much to bear. And so as to retreat as always into the false safety on one’s emptied emotions ever held at bay. The casement holding any hope of lifelong happiness at bay. The slim hopes of encores for the sake of its phantom form that should have been bestowed in decades past. Not solitude, or whatever else it may be called. The concert ends. Epiphany, but not necessarily exhaustion [exeunt].
[Epilogue] OK, I went out of the house on a nagging impulse. A long repressed impulse. Long held back impulses, ones that conjure impossible hopes. Ones generated over some previous other’s like a panic ridden crowd caught within a crush of theater goers in a darkened auditorium. One that has ‘en masse‘ heard an anonymous voice yell, “Fire!” Today, miles away from my own abode, I await for an impossible meeting. A meeting occasioned by a feeling that one if one believes and acts against reason, then it might be imminent. One that, like any other self-inspired fantasy, perhaps goes from mere improbability, but not quite past and beyond the realm of possibility. Can it be any more foolish to believe in your own world of private fantasies than to take on the usual mantle of fallibility in those incessant universal everyday kind that one is ceaselessly fed?