it was a pleasant sunny day strolling down the sidewalk at the edge of the beach by the water. The adjacent bike path’s traffic was slowly buildings with weekend ‘Tour de France’ aficionados many of whom who seemed to confuse occasional pedestrian traffic crossing their path as some form of momentary personal vendetta. Approaching the meander of the six lane highway to the other side of the ritzier section of the city’s center the Brahman section of the beach came into view. I knew that I was out of my depth strolling down this part of the beach. One that was unofficially reserved by some unspoken fiat for those in full flower of youth and wealth. And here was I nearly four decades past same taking my time at a pace that was annoying to all constituents of that age group! But there were no stanchions along the path to keep the riff raffia out of their zone. And my pittance of tax money was a good as the massive amounts that many of their parents declined to pay so rather than cross over under the tunnel below the big highway to an adjoining side street I rallied forth at the exact same slow maddeningly pace obliviously taking in any and all surrounding me as if it were part of a circus midway. And for someone such as myself, as I have said, being a multiple of three times the age of nearly all those before me nearly in the buff and vainglorious exposing as much well-tanned buff flesh as possible I am sure I was just as problematic. If not in the eyes as problematic as the occasional appearance of one of their parent’s in swimwear that might have exposed all the most unwanted bulges that their well-tanned sensibilities would have been fearfully abhorrent of. The current day’s propriety of this region not tolerant of an Michelin males or Pillsbury dough people.
One section demanded that all who dare not risk life and limb challenging the eminent domain of the nearby velocipede superhighway had to descend via an old crumbling concrete stairwell to walk amidst the well-heeled Lancome Bienfait buttered bun skinny thong-habited indigene. Granite ‘six pack‘ torsos supporting swollen biceps silently hard at work to garner temporal admiration within the surround of diffident maiden flesh. Their own ample Venus de Milo marbled chassis sporting sparsely covered surgically over-inflated boobies lounging like seals on the expanse of the low waist high sea wall. My own tiny, oft forgotten, ‘Johnson‘ becoming a tad nervously restless at this enfolding spectacle below I courageously descended. An navigational hazard appeared in my peripheral vision sitting somewhat draped on the treads ten steps down. A young man with his physical form lounging Etruscan couch style indifferently taking up a good part of the real estate nearly blocking egress into the teaming youthful morass below. My efforts to be covertly as circuitous as possible bruised by his verbal interjection. “Would you mind giving me a hand?“, the Apollonian face spoke in my direction. As if uttering some obscure stern quip from the more erudite unexplored postings of a lesser know ancient Greek poet. I looked back at him with trepidation as I had managed to circumnavigate his obstruction with what I took to be an extraordinary degree of stealth. What inordinate rule of the Gods had I transgressed to bring forth an utterance. Then I turned a bit and noticed that his lower limbs were quite thin and limp. His sunglasses armed continence directed its fire my way once again “Would you mind giving me a hand?” I stood there dumb as an ox. His appearance was no less than any other of nearby Narcissus. In fact, given the level of vesture and accompanying the Hublot chronometer and Roman Paul neck chain it might have been easily said that his was more than a few rungs above. “A Lift . . . in the literal sense!” Obviously considered an ox by this young man. Something though in my own private conversation informed me that this was a challenge of sorts. Not some saccharine issue of what might have been considered Good Samaritan gesture. But a challenge on the level of laying down a gauntlet with the corresponding probability of a dueling scar or worse. An act of retreat signifying cowardice. I didn’t consider that I might possibly fail to be able to lift him up. Surprisingly, up in the air he went and my back after many years of wear and teas held. I now served as pachyderm.
It was a strange career where though I was publicly scorned and privately invisible my talents at discretion and still adequate arms brought me into unimagined circles as this young gentleman’s man’s man in public. A role that I had once scorned but when actively taken on led to unofficial wealth and access to a portion of the world that I had vaguely heard of but never really knew existed. In some strange way I became the focus of a certain calling within the atmosphere of general decadence that this young gentleman traveled. Perhaps his own perverse nature as a millennial in wanting to be seen carried into venues by an aging ‘baby boomer‘ whetted some inner private fantasy of his own? While perceptibly considerable as ‘Gay’ in tastes to a casual outsider, agnostic to all things overtly sexual in practice focusing more on the regal exercise of power rather than real world participation. The demonstrated example of which led to a certain ranking of young attractive females in the environs approached were likely to approach who were willing to enthusiastically advance their desire to off participation in very forward offers of offbeat sexual gratification. Ones where I was tasked as their centerpiece. For me in those times of my scheduled performance in ceremonial entry and ultimate egress it was like reliving my own licentious young adulthood. A special status that for a while was entertaining but in light of age, stamina and reason soon became too problematic. I found myself comparing the levels of perversity’s engaged in. And to some degree found a fellow traveler in that regard from the behavior of my benefactor who only allowed himself to be engaged in an abbreviated version of some offbeat calling when it involved him ‘riding int he saddle‘ as opposed to serving as the conveyance. Humiliation having been foisted on him by the fact of his physical condition but not by current avocation to continue it through physical lip service. It was odd that like some Vaudeville performer of yore when found off-stage he treated me with a certain silent unspoken respect. An essential to his act that as it seemed to garner the affection of each audience he would not deign to tamper with or defame. The lesson that time and a variety of extraordinary experiences soon providing was that the human race as a single species was indeed a strange animal. And like any other animal in an unsure and chaotic universe had to be unscrupulously tamed and kept under tight control lest it eventually lead to the demise of it’s master.
If one writes for the simple pleasure of it then that is one thing. But don’t write for the sake of a profit. Then you will find yourself hitching your cart up to a delusion of riches and notoriety to come. “Opinions are like assholes!”, it has been for so long restated. Maybe the discussion would be less polemic if one juxtaposed ‘mouths’? To simply ride along the soapy bubble sliding into common popularity betrays any trust one might have had with their own truth. Why challenge someone else’s posthumous longstanding success? Posthumous authors remain ever the most popular! Even if their physical forms are not quite dead yet. The act of instilling a ‘knock off‘ in the covert sense of same of working around the edges searching for a slightly different hook is no better than selling your soul to the market. Fame and riches are not for everybody! Especially if they come up short in disinterest for another unrepentant individual. Dare one tell their real fantasies and dreams and see how long that any readership for their thoughts would remain? Yet it is the unbounded animal within that lurks without care of opinions that fascinates the most in the long run. The rest is artifice. A convenient cage of words to contain the latest rare attraction and keep it from consuming the all too willing flesh of the envious public. How the endless futility of murder and horror warms the heart of millions. To see a wolf’s head soaked in blood fresh from the carcass of its last victim suddenly confront one’s favorite avatar and then marvel at the incongruity of his unbelievable escape. Vicarious thrills in the underworld of Hellish unspoken dreams! To be both victim and perpetrator in one breath but then be redeemed by the last stanza of the last paragraph. The order of the universe as reflected in the current underwhelming mismatch of society once again restored. The reassuring imbalance that all of society reflects one because they are simply weak vessels.
So many lives undisclosed living innocuously rotting slowly within acme longitudinal nineteen-thirties vintage Manhattan apartments. You’d never know that they were there! How do they survive but in the best way that they can? Taking on the roles throughout a lifetime without complaint that are handed out much as they are given. Struggling mightily to succeed until one day they are too infirm any longer to try. Deposited upon a sofa near to unmoving peering out that same picture window to the new building across the street. Their partners rough and tumble type cut from a savage cloth that you would not expect. All roles reversed in this age. A bantam weight woman slugging it out in the ring. Her manager just some guy from the neighborhood that looks like he should be selling drugs on the local street corner but does not. Short deals transacted by word of mouth in dark hallways before old building elevators. The carpet bruised beneath them by a hundred thousand lifetimes of anonymous footfalls. That feint smell of human urine in the vicinity of a far off corner. Some aging interloper that has lived here forever but has not yet been thrown out. Clinging to their borrowed birthright mentally incompetent when it comes to no where else to go. Cystic fibrosis and the remainder of their dead parents investment portfolio to sustain the rent. That old dried out hope in dark plastic pill bottles labeled by the old drugstore that used to be several blocks away on the boulevard amidst all the honking car horns of day. No one goes out anymore at night! The urban grid along Broadway filled with cabs their inestimable number of headlamps breaking past old blinds and curtains providing a light show upon many an empty ceiling. That same showy figure gazing at the opposite wall inert and perpetually taciturn as an ancient sphinx. The flicker of youthful follies playing across the weathered stone. The quiet rush of nighttime. The sound of the external a quiet comforting sea of perpetually restless regrets. Humanity swelling threading to all exhale synchronized at once. Several more no longer moving every once and a while police called carried out by attendants in the dead of night. The barren emptiness of musty presences refusing to so quickly fade away. No route to an easy Heaven there. Or anywhere . . .
There was a problem with existence as a material manifestation of more than simply thought.To be aware of one’s self had its limitations in that a single thought might have inferred coherent action? But when it was split into two there was an immediate fractious level of disagreement and divergence. The single cell ‘world amoeba’ may have had a way of reconciling this? But after all it was bound to fail when it was defined by varying substances. Democracy just did not hack it. Thus when man as the noble savage may have abided the ‘sturm und drang’ of immediate family in the wilds civilized cooperation would always lead to unforeseen burdens and restrictions in the form of laws. The goal being to find a way to get all involved to act with common purpose as one. From that point on the immediate environment had become the biggest adversary. The tribal notion of get along with the great mystery of ‘what is’ dissolved into the ever present mentality of ‘what is possible at some future point in time’. The focus of the amalgamation of the species into a nation took away the individual rights to decide against against the judgments of the most influential. And the fiction of the majority was born along with its greatest advocate, the politician.
A larger dilemma soon appeared to this self-lauditory notion of organized society in that the larger it became the more it found rivalry with heretofore unexpected larger ones. Many of which though not initially warlike were definitely more efficiently organized and therefore innately powerful. The natural inclination to overwhelm by force of numbers so as to assimilate this foreign body needed a more subtle strategy of something called guile which was a device that acted as a cover for implementing some form of self-serving form of deceit/ This became known as diplomacy and involved the trade of women as fertile concubines that would yield family members to serve as hostages for one of the other side’s vestigial remaining notions of family loyalty. The procreation of offspring being the greatest form of reserve strength in the contemplation of imminent hostilities. And the greatest burden when resources to accommodate a progressional rate of growth was not supported by the surrounding environment. Thus Democracy’s true tyranny was born being called social welfare.
A reliable means to trim down the thinking herd and control its ability to reason then became necessary to counter this burden and came into being known by the term warfare and was thus established. The difference between the notion of overwhelming confrontation by numbers well-known in the dim formative past now became a struggle against ones own. The entities known as ‘straw men’ and ‘scapegoats’ were invented always seeming to have a permanent home within ones own general population. Animal husbandry quickly morphing into agriculture so that the designated irritants to society could be regularly weeded out as needed. The large the population the greater the ferocity of the means of extinction needed. The mere public suggestion of the possible implementation of these tools of the trade of slaughter led to the double-edged form of mental anguish called advertising and public relations. The idea being to keep the core population fearfully off balance and thus easily tractable to cooperate with strategies that would lead to their own physical destruction. The longterm effects producing and unexpected offshoot in the form of the misnomer of modern medicine. Something that rough hewn individualistic males were restrained from avoiding by security obsessed females who, as the main object of social manufacture of species, would not tolerate. Thus was born the concept of the mightily hammer of the vote. An illusory ritual where the male of the species was ever undermined by those professing feminine aspects in favor of the something called the state. An artificial mental construct that assured getting things most in return for pledging one’s future biological output as collateral in return for the guarantee of the lion’s share of resources. The mechanism passed overhead of these females to the male being something called taxes. A concept associated with a necessary stable condition commonly referred to as living death.
The onion-like complexity that evolved in the wake of all these many advancements being the source of that nagging condition called angst. a situation where an external artificial device was created to help self monitor the species on an individual basis. Considering the stratum of the various flavors of humankind and the styles of life that the unavoidable effects of unmitigatable nature provided this invention had to imagined in several forms. The phone. The movie theater. And the television screen. The first of these variants useful to females in their role as wardens of general society. The middle as a remote location where offspring could be occasionally exiled to for the mental well being of the former. And of course, the last device being useful to immobilize the most egregiously active and individualistic males in specific traps such as sofas and bar stools. The programmed material of modern broadcasting demonstrating its worth in monotonously recycling the same of fantasy of male potency in sports that featured male in adolescent play and mock slaughter. Something useful to the aims of the larger organism as previously stated.
A further means of control to restrict the restlessness of the combination of men and women had to be devised that would further inhibit unexpected outbursts desirous of escaping the proscribed patterns of society’s strictures as a whole. The orderly distribution of human beings to toil at their allotted tasks needed a static address. Thus the family home accompanied by the mortgage that was impossible to pay off until later life was instituted. The fiction of something called ownership a carrot to be held just out of reach by the overbearing burden of the state upon the hapless donkey. Something to further hobble any overly precocious male. The stress created by these artifices of the abstract referred to a normal life needing to be circumvented by a vehicle that represented escape but in fact ended up in further debilitation of choice. The modern automobile with its yearly releases managed to garner whatever future earning potential a family unit might be able to produce and recycle all their equivalent work product back into the hegemony of the overbearing state. That world germ known also as mankind.
The aging starlet saw her face seamlessly foisted upon the body of another. The composite likeness of her own visage Photo-shopped upon the naked form of another impaled on the fleshy stick of another faceless male like a Popsicle. How unlike her current existence. That empty series of early morning cattle calls to studio appointments and celebrity events that demanded more of makeup and costume each year to camouflage the decline of that indescribable youthful zest that had brought her into the business in the first place. Now that damnable icon that she had fallen a slave to serving had vaulted to a celebrated realm of perpetual existence that she had never known or would ever hope to approach. The fact of her most private portions shown in proxy utterly maddening if one considered that the anonymous artist had been so overly generous in his choice of pictorial reality. Something that even in her heyday was redoubtable and left untouched by the camera’s hard and uncompromising lens. In some ways it drover her insane to see the slapdash perfection of her most public rival of herself. These midnight hacks seemed so much better at it than she. They not having to endure endless hunger to keep an unruly form at bay or return each night to a solitary bathroom mirror to peel off the glitz and become demoralized by the reacquainted with the lesser mortal that lay just beneath. It was all she could do to control her anger.
How many years of suffering had she devoted to perfecting the imperfect that this unknown scoundrel had re-devised in a matter of less than an hour if that? The juxtaposition of head and body seeming flawless yet the overfilled chest and hips ballooned to almost cartoon proportion. The breasts that bobbed below her chin seemed more from the produce section than from any living human being. The saltwater implants that had as of late replaced the older model of silicone had been the result of much careful judgment in the choosing of the medical practitioner that would assure no sense of bilious proportion that would suggest to the eye of a viewer anything but natural proportion. The viewer now left with the impression that all this care had gone for naught with some overstated hack job. The suggestion being that the aura of refinement and grace that had been the foundation of her stereotyping had been tossed into the arena of a gutter slut. The nerve! And then there was the issue of that ravenous clam-like entrance that through careful management had never come to see the light of day. A rough grizzly dark forest hanging weed-like over the rudeness over a super dilated outcropping of irritated mucous ridden pink flesh. Nothing conceived in the darker regions of her own past could approach the heresy of being so casually associated with this. Save a singular episode of her own dimly lit experience dutifully forgotten from an incident when she had run fallen afoul of good judgment to contract some exacerbated case of women’s trouble.
This ignoble visage in every way mounting broadside after broadside to the woman’s ego. She couldn’t imagine the slut that had originally posed for it and her mindset. At least that bitch had the convenience of anonymity provided by her face. A suppressed memory long cordoned off was instantly jogged as she gazed intently along the limbs and torso of this mysterious decapitated ‘Marie Antoinette. What aim in a persistent dream of possible attainment of a chance of fame and fortune through possible stardom had she though worth the price of her own publicly distributed degradation? Somehow the pondering of such possible avenues sparking motivation was a key to a door that she had herself not dared to allow unlocked for some time now. How vile and vulnerable to have indifferent others peer into the medium in transport of your soul and command it then use it like a dirty dishrag. The star looked upon the facsimile of the representation of her own facial expression pasted so artfully on this pictorial xenomorph trying to determine from what particular event and tabloid that it hailed from? Some overly motivated snot nosed paparazzi verging forth for an instant from amidst all the other Diptera to snap her displeasure at playing the retreating fox to their voracious hounds. The combination of expression and contrasting bodily attitude leaving the ringing impression of some foul snickering locker room mockery. It seemed to sting her eyes as they poured repeatedly over it. The more she saw of it there before her exhibiting its gross shameless abandon the more nauseated she felt. It was all she could do to not throw the computer with its offending imagery from the desk. She pushed to chair back loosing a loud sharp stuttering cry of protest. It was time to pop a couple Lyrica and retire to her bedroom. There was a five AM call the next morning and she had to compose herself as her costar being some new discovery of the producer was at least seven years her younger. That disposed head caught in the moment of long forgotten pique bidding her farewell as the screen went suddenly dark to leave her with her demons and fears that her access to it might to soon disappear as well.
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.
The bottle’s neck smelled like sarsaparilla.A most annoying smell that transposed itself to taste when one lifted the bottle’s open end to the mouth to swallow it’s contents. As the neutral sensation of carbonated mineral water was tainted by that fragrance it despoiled the experience of the drink. At two dollars a bottle, its presence as a staple to his daily diet had become an expensive commodity. Certainly not detrimental to his general health. In fact quite the opposite. But fatal to his lack of income which at present was next to insufficient. How unthinking of the anonymous party who stocked the local store to bathe their skin in some eccentric offbeat fragrance that for them was some sort of signature of individual personality. An unwanted commercially available pheromone that may have provided them with a greater level of social accessibility but to his sense of smell and taste only signified annoyance. The efficiency of his senses had come down to the bare minimum over too many years of constant assault by city living with its proclivity of volatile industrial ether. Acetone’s, keytone’s and kerosene’s. Ethyl methyl’s, pollen’s and dusts. The smell of tainted canals wafting up daily from ten miles to the south. It all intermixed into a noxious stew the presence of which was ever on display on the horizon each night at sunset. The personal signature of the massive enclave within which the bulk of his mortal existence had transpired. A scratchy dryness suddenly appeared as he cleared his throat of the sensation of thickened mucous with low grating vocal scrape.
His custom at the small supermarket chain was regular but small in revenue. The fact that the state was picking up the tab not adding weight to any potential commentary he might offer as to a positive suggestion by him of how to avoid such unfortunate inadvertent situations that would steal away customer satisfaction with the goods offered by the establishment. After all if he had wanted some flavored water there wee certainly more sophisticated and tastier alternatives available. He could imagine the scenario in this current era of faceless commercial consumerism. A prompt refund might be initially offered with a customary apology at his complaint when the touchstone of a recent sales receipt was produced, Maybe the thin unsubstantial promise of promptly seeing to it that an internal inquiry would be conducted within the next day so as to bring the offending shelf ‘stocker’ into line with store policies on personal hygiene. Part of him was rankled by the thought of this. One one hand there would be a certain Patrician satisfaction if on the next purchase the product’s containers had resumed their former neutral lack of taste or aroma. Yet this would cast him in a group that he himself personally despised. Those pinch nosed egomaniacs that thought nothing of disturbing the usual fast-paced rhythms of efficiently stocking shelves by hard working low paid staff who would now be eyed with an even greater level of suspicion in an economy that already had too many working far below their potential earning less dollars than they were supposedly deserved of. This might lead to unintended consequences? By some odd stretch of his imagination he could conceive of a scenario where through the consternation of an underling his rare and hard to find preference of brand would be struck from the store’s inventory? Then where would he be able to seek out the key active element in his own personal daily ritual of mental solace?
It made him even more cross to think how powerless he was to provide one measure of constancy to a diminished level of bare bones existence that by all intents and purposes should not have to suffer such constant and daily privation. When would this persistent economic drought lift and a reasonable level of local prosperity return? It was so unfair! The neighborhood was not by any stretch of the imagination destitute. The ghetto of urban blacks and Hispanics at the municipal border stood some two miles East. A curtain of struggling tax challenged White Middle class homes standing as sentinels to the ebb and flow shift of ethnic distribution. It was true that the endless stream of peoples from outside the nation had not been stemmed but quite the opposite, had been increasing. The first and second generations of same now economically acclimated and relatively prosperous and stable. The spectrum of goods and services locally available bearing ever more foreign sounding names with strange characters painted in garish jarring color palates that seemed to contradict those that once was long used to. He could recall so many memories of years past where one could rely on local standbys that had made their reputations solid through providing old world service and goods that were significant of those golden years of easily obtainable living. Now their empty store fronts were slowly being bulldozed having sat too long in the eclipse of what was formerly the good old days. It made his blood boil to see that other neighborhood across the boulevard just South stand so unaffected by all this! Large houses with many more bedrooms than needed by the average family/ Well-manicured highly decorated parcels of acreage that required ant-like crews of immigrant labor to maintain that immaculate fairy tale untouched appearance. As if everyone who lived there was somehow an Olympian far above the cares and woes of the normal folk that did without so that they did not have to. That was the myth and backbone of the credo of Capitalism! Something that despite all the social cultural dislocation that most felt one was required to give reverent lip service to.
He took another sip from the bottle and wrinkled his nose. Things were not like this before his mind responded to the renewed annoyance of that strange offbeat scent. It reminded him of those odd smells that would be occasionally wafting past into the open driver’s side window of his sedan when he found himself driving through that over-packed noisy decaying urban sprawl that was thick with perpetually dissatisfied ghetto-dwellers who seemed always surly and ready to impose the threat of violent confrontation. The associations one had when traversing those areas was to keep the windows rolled up tight and maintain a swift and as uninterrupted progress down the center lanes of a major boulevard making sure that one would not be unsuspectedly blocked by hostile parties who might have violent intentions on their mind. He absolutely hated those places and could imagine setting foot on the Moon without a space suit easier than strolling down the sidewalk of any of those avenues either day or night. Their incrementally expanding presence ever seeping towards his own tiny kingdom being so very significant of how bad things were getting in the world at large. He hated that smell. It upset everything! It made him want to sell or even just throw out everything, sell his property and go somewhere. Anywhere! Just as long as he didn’t have to deal with those ever-demanding hostile forces. It wasn’t fair! He and his parents had worked for years starting up a small family company that when times were good allowed them to live well. The shift in technologies and the fall of fashion restlessly progressing away from the style and substance that the business offered causing it eventually to close before the passing of his kin. He had to supposed that given his own advance in age that he was to be considered almost a dinosaur? Someone from a bygone era that wouldn’t have the skill base or proper mentality to continue in society in a manner that was productive enough to hire. His generation like that of his own parents being the most reliable and easy target of eventual scorn. It wasn’t true he heard an inner voice protest. Alas a deeper more steadied voice seemed to respond, “Indeed it was!”
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.