Lost on the rough roads of a cartoon forest. Bumping along roads my old luxury sedan was at jeopardy of failing at. Large gray paper mache color pits in intersections to be avoided. Resolved to be brave if the end was to come. I bumped, bumped bumped over verdant shoulders past tall straight trees possible only in the imagination to avoid these traps. All this travel through strange enigmatic territory to enact an internecine rivalry in a wooded glen at a ridiculously short distance plunking Glock ammunition back and forth. Two against one. Plink, plink, plink upon respective barriers that both parties had to stay crouched behind. Why? What was the purpose of this battle? Some minor point of meddling angst or petty aggravation to be settled in a grievous wound that neither of us wanted. The foolishness of it descending upon us after the offers of chivalry in periods of reload aloud for time away from each of our barriers. The ammunition of each of our small arms cannonade growing short in supply. A newly found felicity built on the realization that mercurial bouts of futile exhaustion makes the best of friends after all.
On, after all, I have supped the broth of futility so often. Come up dry in a desert of my own making that should have been a glen. No why’s or wherefores to explain that well-incarcerated desire to simply destroy myself and get the whole damn thing over with poste haste. The dust of the ages fuzz accumulated in my navel. Ceaseless pleasures forlorn for the sake of a constant and long enforced love of solitude. The world absolutely perfectly the way that I want it. Ego maniacal franchises that have no endings. No time outs. The world is awash with television Socialism of false Utopias of simulated universes where paradise has no conclusion only stay tuned next week’s. How in the Hell of one’s own created eternal fire could one succeed in such a place without the descent of perpetual ennuii? Plnik, plink, plink! The shooting contest continues again. The ring of copper and lead on steel failing to lead to produce a mixture of bronze. De-evolusion to a state of perpetuity shooting at the shadow of one’s self. An effigy taken from times past. A straw man. A wicker man. Set afire with old unsatisfied dreams struggling for continued life within.
Each time I rise I find myself back in this same darkness wandering and wondering about an all too familiar space so high above the pavement. Mount Olympus my prison cell. The proferred trade of tat without tit. A mental chess extravaganza with my own failed impatience. I have become naught. Some old husk shocked forth by the winnow. This game of shadows past ever present in a tiresome lexicon of well-determined defenses against that which is desired so deeply. Hamlet’s rant! Killer bee magical conclusions of hive like propositions promising results through constant stings of inconsequential results. Sequestered in this chair stairing at a lighted screen. The sounds of the mand-made mechanical universe deverting me from my calling with the stars. Porpoise play in the eternal celestial dust of immense gaseous nebulas. I lay back and drift but encounter a wall. The inner dimensions of this rectangular manmade configuration that I will not leave. Horse in the burning barn. Too tired to think. Bump, bump, bump! The neighbors next door threaten my sleep. I am done for! Good night.
My fantasy of a French girl. Somehow the topic of love got lost in the bargain. My fantasy of being adept at understanding French but not so well that they catch on because I don’t want to know too much. Just enough. Nothing to spoil the illusion of white skin beauty and madness. It is her craziness that I love and respect. Respect like I do my own. You have to be crazy and alive to last in this world. When you lose that you die. Ia am currently dead! All these impossible affinities with dolls safely out of reach. Atonement for the major fuck ups of my life. A long career of bumps in the road. Of bumps in the night. Of losing my fear of too much and therefore not respecting anything anymore. Sad possibilities of serving an infernal sentence. I want to be its master and not its slave. But I am afraid that that is not possible. No longer possible.
I want a French girl! Because I know that they know how to suffer regret. Sluts all of them at heart! Ready to sell themselves to lost causes and arrogant about it. Crystal glass playthings that fracture so easily and need a lifetime of patching up. So fragile and delicate. France being the endless journey looking for what. Lost little shanties full of wine and bead and lust. Disappointment abounding as with the rest of the world for things not coming out right but just being there. For daily operas containing too many words. How I wish I could understand them all! No, I don’t. I would rather bruise my knees bloody at an altar at San Sulpice. The ritual being a way to attract my Madonna to climb down so we can go catch a drink. Those eyes so lively. How can a man not want to drown within them?
Two expresso’s! I need to talk this out. I can’t come back later. I haven’t been there at all! I want the fantasy but the woman comes along at no charge. That is the tough part. I don’t know if I am able to walk down the gangplank and never see myself again? To wake up right now and not see the same old cracks the ceiling. To turn over in bed and find a scrunched up face that has turned into what it has always been. An indifferent stranger who I have no possibility of ever getting to know. To be able to feel comfortable with. I want to marry a French girl. I once did. But, alas, as I recall now, that didn’t work out.
My mother loved to watch, Gone With The Wind. It was her favorite movie. I can’t say that I ever understood what it meant to her. That was my failing as the perennial ‘late bloomer’. When I have seen it as of late it seems so blatantly obvious now. The frivolous nature of a young desirable girl. A seen of love based upon a foolish seen of infatuation. The fear of being left vulnerable and alone. The building of an inner resolve as a maturing woman to steel herself against any challenge. The opportunity that life provides her to prove her abilities and worth again all odds. Making her own way int he world despite the criticism of society. Discovering the true nature of love and friendship even if it seems too late in the game. And the value of home and the legacy of family that one has come from. All these qualities having their effect upon a young girl looking forward to the transition into womanhood.
She was nineteen when it appeared in theaters in 1940. I have to wonder if she viewed it first in the last preeminent movie palace still extent in the midst of the loop in Chicago? What disappointments and discoveries that lay ahead of her one might wonder if she expected? A world where war stole the possibility of finding a lasting love. The rise of career seeming to interject itself betwixt the chance for finding a home and raising a family. A brief and incidental marriage to a selfish boy that pretended to be a man leading to the disappointment and despair of never achieving the goal of harmony in motherhood. The tragic death of her mother and the subsequent loss of her father due to his grief and despair. And of course my father who in so many ways was a fit stand in for the real man in O’Selznick’s passion play. That special someone who had all the faults but at the core of it loved her and held her as the center of his universe. The most significant big budget extravaganza of her coming of age predicting in so many ways what became the challenges that she faced in the subsequent progress of her later life. How she must have viewed herself against the foil of the drama’s lead character at those many decisive junctures of her existence?
To view the film now is to catch sight of her at that tender age in the flickering darkness of the audience. A sight one rarely finds as a child of a woman that to them seemed the eternal archaic goddess known as ‘mother’. “January 17th, 1940.” To think of the date that she may have stepped into the lobby of some baroque movie palace fresh with anticipation to encounter the fresh celluloid telling her the tale of her future and destiny. How clever in hindsight for the doyens of Hollywood to fashion their plans to come within such clever intrigue. To show how a well-planned world conflict would affect the aspirations of the then contemporary iteration society coming of age and hint at how it would soon be transfigured. And in considering the subsequent ‘strum und drang‘ of this current time deposed. The players in the drama provided with both highs and lows and revealed as heroes or villains by their building legacy of reactions. The controversial aspect of the social incarceration of one and the effect of their inescapable lot in life ever-present as both tool and warning.
I have to wonder at the double edge sword the genius and the diabolical nature of those that power society so frivolously without the art form of painting the prospective progression of human life upon a screen? And then hangs it over the heads of the viewer by a thread for the rest of their existence. The audience aligning their lives to a mass hysterical narrative as opposed to finding their own way unassisted through the tangle wood of everyday chaos? Sitting here alone within the fading limelight of my own passing existence being the sole keeper of the long but now extinct narrative of my own kin I can only wonder further what the true natures of my own local players were? Their true identities reflected by the unspoken hopes and dreams that never were revealed . And somehow remained elusive never to come to pass! And how I might somehow in some small way further get to know them as they really once were.
A ‘menschen‘ of excess and obsession. Pathologically so! All to show for their failings being the oversupply of material objects each of an outmoded sense of value to the atrophy of society that forever surrounds them. The chase for golden apples seemingly eternal for the brass of the moment when a synthesis with that diaphanous proposition success translates into a temporal reality of being found ahead of all the others. The most dangerous of notions!
It may have been that along the way on the path one forged that sight of what was so long familiar and easily to mind in the past was lost. One’s own name forgotten? That tall grass that ever lay unkempt. Tamed only after the largess of the passing seasons converted into dead stalks blown over by old winds to fall desiccated and seemingly spent before another season’s reciprocation. The dipole of mixed emotions equally susceptible to being drawn to and forth and then repelled What after all did one have to lose but one’s self? The infrequency of familiar relations a rarity with others casting one immediately as the stranger. Novel for a time, but never at home. Only those far distant times that were spent under the rule of those barely recalled others who brought one into the world. Judged a fit bow to have claimed have loosed so errant an arrow. Enforced anonymity equally a matter of patent non-specificity being as much a matter of reckless adherence to the daily rule of iron routines. Like a liquid, bleaching a visible spot as stain goes on expanding beyond its boundaries attempting to seek the most expeditiously covert means of escape. High pressure to low pressure. So much that quantity of landscape to have been dragged across so roughly.So many rocks that have bruised the thighs! And all of the damage too problematic to attempt to reasonably recall! Can one have the presence of mind to be able to precisely recall the disapproval upon their own mother’s or father’s face? The keepers of the circus cannon that one once used to recklessly shoot one’s self from. To bump and land roughly into more distant climes to be locked and imprisoned in solitude. Now the facsimile of the idea that propelled one forth lost somewhere nondescript within abandoned fairgrounds. A concept suddenly found to have been long ago disproved but never heeded. Those fatal and inescapable words, “I am alone.”
The sonorous quality of all things familiar drives one to summon the creation that approximates what once . To find that same nest of broken eggshells that was once known as home? How close to that vine that one seems to cling to when the fear of an inevitable end is approaching? Trying to summon some form of reliable surety, as if one surely knows something unique and eternal as opposed to simply repeating the same answers as one is always told. The path leads only in one direction. There is no possibility of return. The great tragedy of finding a fool’s cap resting upon one’s own head as they are informed it has always so securely rested. “What could you have ever expected to carry with you to the grave?” So many would have wanted one to tell a a safe and comforting familiar story! To recount a place of wonder safe from want or annoying irritations.To take them somewhere that may be familiar enough to never challenge but delightfully explore two steps only past the periphery. Not lost in the bush. “Is that right?” How do robins manage to mind their young yet expect them to fly off one day on their own? All we have in this larger fishbowl is ourselves and the long accumulation of what becomes our own follies to confront. Every automobile eventually runs out of gas or breaks down. Unless some measure of replenishment is found. But what if it can no longer be found? A long line of camels waiting for safe passage through a needle’s eye. Too far somewhere undefined in the desert of one’s self? Past times seems to quickly fade into rust. Banished by one’s children who will start their lives independently of any judgment of my own when fully grown. Individuals and adults when you are long dead. A passing generation another fragile flotilla of little candles in paper boats sailing off into the waiting darkness together and yet alone. But to what end? Eventually. Inevitably withdrawn from society and humanity demoted to a passing intermediate phase of inconvenient and annoying presence to those young and vial? A dry no longer nutritious granule in an aging box of cream of wheat. A box of crumbling crayons no longer usable. That long nightly climb to the solitude of the bed chamber. The great novels locked in one’s head otherwise empty and sunk into the harbor of regret. Lamenting all the impossibilities that one could never have possibly shared in? The life of the reasonable and possible having never been fully formed. But gone to rot. A meal for the ship’s worms. Age laughably still not destructive of that perpetual habit of everlasting hope for the future. If not here, then in some other realm never yet suggested or imagined.
I dreamed that I was a father once again as I never have ever thought I had been. Explaining the loss of one child to the other as best I could not though I too stretched forth for answers for questions never to be satisfied. A stay at home day running a newsstand with the latest articles tattooed freshly each morning upon my skin. I had no words of my own left to say. But I began with anger and angst left in my teeth and a heart of Philosopher’s lead. Not enough phlogiston left to return the light of my remaining boy’s eyes. That would have to return of its own though it grieved me to think that I could not make a dent in the avalanche of life that had come crashing down upon the two of us. Caught within the indifferent hive of humanity forced to make our way in this strange land of unceasing doubt.
Vulnerable, oh so vulnerable. A solitary soul in an infinitive fish bowl. Those manifold events from ones past caught up in a whirlwind and tossed back at one. Only one’s obsession providing any order in the ever turning chaos. Some minor detail based on the previous earthly rotation being a key to entry to this crazy quilt world. A collection of material artifacts providing the needed stimulation to proceed. A lifeline in the stream that extends only so far. The edge of the great Niagara. This darkness being the launching pad where the soul can step off and bathe equally in both past and present. The world is ever populated by the old waiting to die off. Useless bipeds who atrophy a little more each day.
One eye myopic and increasingly so, creating ever more frequent vascular headaches. My life in decline across the great desert of myself. Bereft of fantasy for the sake of others. This earth is a fiction devised. Nothing about it seems true. Just accepted fact. We are a universe of conventions individuals mining for fool’s gold. Pyrite constitutions calling it emeralds. Totally lost in the funny papers of a world loosely termed tomorrow. A crying machine of industrial tears suggesting larger proportions. Our hapless selves driven forward, ever forward, till we sicken and escape the material. The shift of the herd over the years suggesting that we all son’t make it.How lovely is a child’s smile! This is what one has to contend with.
Close your eyes in a chair and imagine a giant eraser with which you can erase yourself so that you float alone in a big velvet black. Tabla Raza again, once again! Only the on again, off again flow of blood past your right ear to reveal you. The inner clock that reminds you that time ticks away. Signing off on every instant in a single beat. An endless trickle that subtends life. That infernal mechanism that seems to stand between you and an eternity of nothingness. The is the edge of the highway if a nation of roads and major thoroughfares. We analogize ourselves as a people under a common label in our how territories. Only sailors are unafraid to push off into chaos for the benefit of unknown shores. We inhabit this place like molecules demanding the rights of Godhood. How impossible this all is?
One sees a small black dog on the grass in Summer chasing about. Released from the leash it chases the ball. Its minder the source of its attentions, it returns in a frenzy cavorting and nervously in rapt attention of the owner of its leash that it has been temporarily released from waiting for the ball to be tossed again so that it can make another mad single pointed dash towards the solitary oblivion of the task of retrieval. The animal reduced to a reliable mechanism that will almost literally chase itself to death to continue the same cycle. How one wonders it one’s own existence in this strange thing called life substantially different. Complex? More varied in the multiplicity of the many cycles? Yes! But caught up in the repetitive cycles none the less.
Society is implicitly a prison of its own making. An unvarying set of daily circumstances that have been enfranchised under brand named entities that reliably provide what is deemed a product or service/ The interlocking of of the complexity of same carefully calculated to induce a constant pattern that the members of society devote the hours of their lives to support. This product of the congress of many human intellects all trained to a common purpose of using a similar model to sculpt a world that defeats the natural chaos while simultaneously analogizing it. As members of this amalgamation one must literally earn the right to survive. For like the chaos of the natural world to live in a unique and unplanned manner is an anathema to the fiction of perpetual survival that organized society offers one over the course of a human lifetime.
The larger question that grows up over time within those that mature over many decades of experience in the slowly morphing caterpillar like progress of the cocoon of surrounding society being the why and wherefore one would enjoy without its overbearing presence. For in as much as it can reliably provide it does equally take away. One never leaves the proverbial school room from the time one is inducted after toddling. You just progress on within the corridors provided so many times unconsciously possessed with the notion that there must be something more. Yet so often finding only a subtle variation of the same exact thing awaiting upon waking from the more random chaos of dreams. The validity of one’s own existence as far as the larger body of mankind is concerned being proven by the sameness that one returns to each morning. One state of being embracing progress into the unpredictable. The other into the persistence of a subset of experiences that in no way substantially differ from those lived the day before. The great weight of the artifice of the mechanism of public opinion ever threatening to demolish the desire to continue forth unchaperoned into the unknown alone.
It is at this boundary where the tension of these two impulses seem to define the character of any given human. Betwixt the world of industrial fantasy that ever advertises the glories of perpetual constancy and the risk taking of repeatedly embracing what is in the present an unknown factor that can deal life and death. There are those that shy away from any precipise. And those that use what they might have discovered in the past as an implement to survive jumping over its edge into limbo. All that are presently known of being perhaps like some monstrous school of fish that are caught in a fisherman’s net that confines the known species. As a member of this enraptured community one has to ask if one dares what else could there be? The collective veil of categorized human experience of the stages of life as lived soon forcing one to ponder if there is any way to get off what seems to be a perpetual moving passenger train barreling down an endless track over a trestle that will not allow escape but only certain destruction. One finds oneself like any tiny little caged animal obsessively consummed with the question, “Can there not be something more?”
So like the dog in the park in the context of the civilized world we are forced to chase and chase and chase and realize that for some strange unaccountable reason of unaddressed fears of a often seductive unknown we condemn ourselves to the former while professing longing for the latter. This split obsession leading nearly all to the reliable nowhere of the same.
In a backwater border area somewhere near an African frontier a tiny mud brick box shaped shanty stood. Long abandoned. It now served as a covert military installation. A bunker serving as a forward looking enemy observation lookout post. Central Command had decided it would make an incursion through bombardment by using this location as the operation’s covert base and ready eyes. They set up a gigantic booby trap per their orders in the adjacent quadrant near the enemy. A killing field that the artillery barrage would subsequently drive them into. The well-hidden structure was manned at times by three or four paramilitary and agency types, half of them women. An unlikely combination of personnel considering the immense level of physical danger in holding such a position after the fact of the disclosure of their presence in the region. They had to attempt to make the second part of the mission look as if it was simply a happenstance occurrence that did not reveal the fact of their presence in near proximity within this structure on the ground. Theoretically the distance between them and the ambush they set up would be far enough. They prepared their end of this exercise from the cover of the tall grass that cloaked their location from view. When it came to initiate their end of it by setting off the explosives, much to their surprise and dismay, a woman’s frantic voice sounded outside revealing their position. Someone that had panicked and not followed the directive of leading potential pursuers away from their disguised base. Small fists pounding furiously on the outside of the structure’s only entrance. This fugitive’s opposite number giving her entry inside just managing to close the heavy wooden beam door before the enemy arrived to lay immediate siege to their structure. A contingent of troops that had been just far afield enough to manage to avoid being annihilated and now burning white hot for a quick and brutal revenge to be levied in kind. The rapid assault on the sturdy timbers saw them pried from their jamb and uprooted in an unexpectedly swift manner. The small room filling quickly with many sets of eyes bearing expectant expressions searching for victims upon which to visit their impending evil intent. Their festival of the application of vengeance would begin in a round of torture of the men and and build slowly to a crescendo saving the women for its finale. Tasking their imaginations to kill everybody in the bunker in the worst way possible. Their collective efforts seeking to provide a fit level of retribution for the ambush.
A Portuguese speaking backwater community in the middle of nowhere in sight of the coast. A haven for old burned out Hippies. A truck driver of a big box panel job doubling as a cab driver offering rides through the tangle of tiny causeways and dead ends that served as the town’s central sprawl. Navigating congested city traffic in the oddest of spaces. In one instance actually bumping up and down going up over the roofs then bouncing across their closely stepped flat cousins down finally into a bone jarring impact upon a dusty street. Smashing a large granite serpentine Augustine head with the back of the vehicle’s carriage. Revealing its true character as a faux stone maquillage for hiding drugs in their liquid form. The immediate result of such a spectacle finding the thoroughly rattled passenger now extent on the other side of town. The driver reveals a young adult daughter whose birthright has cost him his chance at fortune. But he is not a vindictive sort. If you treat him nice then maybe next time take the ride and you can have his daughter maybe as a wife? Maybe to prove yourself? The young girl being the next chapter of the tale being spun. That old story of a Tomboy tough exterior camouflaging an otherwise good heart. The mood of the scene set off by the transport of Italian architecture many centuries past. Though these people are not Italian they are living in an old town. The tourist comes back by the stable of the pensione eating a leg joint of chicken finding the young woman naked in the corral tending to the animals. A big brown and white Guernsey cow backed up against the rails where a horse formerly stood. He tosses the piece to her and she tosses it back on the ground. Then quickly picks it up and throws it back out of the corral at its sender with a look of disgust. “I don’t like chicken!”, she snarls. She’s a willful spirited lass. The man reflects as to what a strange, strange, strange world it is realizing he is currently amidst a dream of his own visiting other simultaneously slumbering people’s lives.
Fall descends! Displacing warmth with slowly biting cold kisses upon the cheek and over one’s extremities. Young Black sedan driven man’s Toyota music rediscovery ‘esplanade’ pounding out a decades old beat. The decades old constant drumming bringing back that other salt shaker in line when the inadvertent listener once knew that particular tune by rote. The volume pushed up so loud before the static traffic lamp that it buffets one like Jackie Chan kicking their ass! His thoughts have been laying down flat for the bulk of the week. A fucking living skeleton still aping human existence. Dead for all intents and purposes to the outside world. Chanting his Asian mantra barely audible. Nearly indiscernible. Trying to escape that ever tinier box called life. Strumming chords and PC chord progressions, trite and dated, having been forever played. In the shadow time of this era, it was not just the wooden puppets that wanted to be a real boy. Little girls trying to take that away too! Identity! Uniqueness! So fucking important! The more artifice applied like makeup to achieve it, the further into a faceless crowd one falls. Tourists in their own lands! Marveling at the falsehoods that they have been told. The magic box of elementary poisons. Nothing to wear! Not a single thing to believe in any longer. All used up! The empty cases discarded. These fucking ‘broads’ are all think they’re boys! There souls have been stolen and now they are just part of the furniture. A dead stick between their legs. Who will put this world aright? Certainly not its enemies that have been working overtime over generations to topple it! No longer that paucity of former friends on the other end of that warm piece of plastic blistering their palms. Hoping for the purring wetness bursting forth within the inert coldness of their extended hand. Modern Relationships. “Girls get what they want!” Boys get their unending frustration. CIVILIZATION? “Game Over!” Nothing left but King Rat! Jump head first into the bore hill and breath the shit into your lungs for a fast exist out. Who was originally accepting the proffer of, “Everything you ever wanted or dreamed of delivered to your door on a silver platter?” That yellow belly low down dirty rotten snake? Or the man who tended to the maidens? The world is your Apple TM. But sooner or later, it rots. That constant pound of jungle rhythms. Who would submit themselves to that? “You should!” You slave bitch! Both sides now scared by a rabbit.