FIRST GUY – “Remember the guy in the 60’s carrying the sign, “The End Is Near?” Well, I’m not laughing at him anymore!”
SECOND GUY – “I saw that same guy on the street corner with a sign that said the same thing a few years ago!”
THIRD GUY – “. . . he wasn’t laughing anymore either!”
“One’s own laughter abruptly peels forth from the starting blocks uncontrollably yet empty of mirth. What’s really funny these days without the metallic tang of bitter irony between one’s teeth like a horse’s bit anymore?”
It’s a filthy little life to those that know no respect. Animals on two legs! Don’t take any of them for granted! They will come after you with a ragged vengeance. Is this place a prison or can I expect to be entertained? Who gets to play the sole hub of the universe at this point in the story? What kind of miller’s tale has a beginning and an end but demands that you BYOB your own recitation of the middle? Strange this ritual gulf between men and women? What should be ridiculously simple ends up quite complex beyond solution. I saw a three story building that was entirely painted DayGlo orange that presented quite an eyesore. It’s patron orange god visible within through the glass front entrance standing plainly visible up to the knee in the atrium. A small crowd of the demonstratively chic admirers scattered haphazardly across the sidewalk playing at being unintended road obstacles; all in hopes of garnering attention from a passersby. The one most invulnerably vulnerable, taking a fright, letting her outward demeanor of eternal placid indifference fall to fear when a particularly aggressive looking male in appearance barged his way through unimpressed by their extravagance. Drole was the pose of the day in terms of the official focus of all their attention; someone screaming out silently in perfect banality. The back of this mannequin’s mind a momentary recollection from out of nowhere of a ‘bridge to nowhere‘.
A lingering artifact from a century or more before dating from another era of the iron horse. A raised up rivet-bound erector set of metal superstructure upon sandstone blocks whose two ends had long ago been truncated by the wheels of progress. It’s remaining corpse left hoisted upon high as if still in the iron grip of celestial pall bearers. The idea of ghostly forms in resistance to the present time a form of vanity. Something to favor in a glimpse of what had always been in the vicinity; a very plausible notion to muse upon. The daily back and forth, and for one short span of twenty seconds, the brief expanse of track between the upper portion of a three story warehouse and another city bound watchtower a couple of hundred feet ahead providing a stillness of contemplation of this marvelous monument still innocuously extent. Hard to believe some dirty-faced humankind toiled away by its wayside in the lengthy interim in-between with a perpetuity of the mundane. Such places hidden in plain visible only offered to those particularly eagle-eyed or abruptly cued by a watchful partner.
Words spoken by absolute strangers given a sense of incontrovertible importance. As if only for the fact that the listener cannot immediately relate to the fact that the communal echo chamber within all is just as clueless to seemingly definitive public conclusions. The many fragments of miniature trapezoids laid across the horizon glimmering like mica chips at dusk; celebrating the decline of the sun in the heavens. It’s jeweled multiplicity constrained by a ruling gravitas enforcing rectilinear proportion of all things square on each of its congealed Terrazzo flakes. It’s glitter laid across the opposite horizon as if spilled. Between reality and laughter, the cotton-like clothing of endless atmosphere is shred then rewoven into other equally misunderstood enigmas.
So, is all this scheming, warring, and ceaseless struggle merely to preserve someone’s gonads? Preservers of the latest ‘true’ faith and belief of this century with the hope that it will become the preferred flavor of the next thousand years? We might as well all whistle Garry Owen and ride off into into the sunset towards the latest form of perdition. It seems to become clear only in one’s elder years that all life is too sweet and precious to squander. We all pick our avatars from the set that relates directly to our own generation, though the result is essentially the same. Factor out the superficiality of appearance and regional custom and find that the central need still remains the same/ To find a pattern that seems to outlast any other. One that might in some way reflect us personally and preserve our personal illusion of life as we know it ever ongoing.
Imagine, if you will take the risk, a dark room far removed from regular civilization filled with beautiful young men and women come of some other rival cult fettered to rows of rough wooden benches; a series of thin electric cables running to and fro from rough attachments upon all the more tender parts to a central generator. Their eyes covered tight by latex bandages and mouths staunched by ball gags. And laid upon each of their the quivering laps below their frenetically heaving breasts a keyboard below their madly typing fingertips. Their progress metered and shockingly corrected in tapping out a story of their own inner dynamics consumed in fearful frenzy frustrations. The raw subtleties of this inescapable dilemma of being lost as just another one in a mass exercise of shared humiliating experience being sought by an overbearing yet invisible communal master. Some mad industrial idea tof a frivolous study the latest psychological nonsense of crowd control or brand preference? Or just another outlet for the overheated boiler of civilized humanity letting off steam from its itchy underbelly? Whatever the propbabale destination or possible use of such demented produce, it would be impossible to say; as much as be able to sort out the possible source for the enacting of such foul dealings? Most likely a CIA prison in Anatolia, or a major motion picture studio’s latest big budget blockbuster in wicked Hollywood!
I sought to find a recurrent place that has haunted my dreams as far back as childhood; and for many years over and over in various forms of relatively the same yet again. A distant place that seems long forgotten but easily discoverable by me; whose innocuous entrance lays somewhere far in back of my newly acquired suite of rooms. Somewhere, perhaps just behind a locked door of a disused corridor otherwise generally unknown commencing to lead one into a aeries of circuitous routes that often exists between walls; and trails down narrow passages who knows where? The route tunneling through those literal earthen bowels of a larger anonymous tremulous psyche. Humanity ever at a distance coming occasionally into brief view within a courtyard far below. Side spaces and tunnels that are rarely if ever visited by those that have built them. Yet cobbled together as if their is a sense of haphazard logos that explains their ultimate purpose. The danger being that once one commits to the journey then there is no return to the world of mankind.
The latest time offering the beginning of a path in a golden shag carpeted back stairwell leading straight up three flights from behind its entrance of a back bedroom closet door; its summit offering three enclosures before one. One of a window offering the vista of the late morning sunny sky; a closet to on the opposite side containing two forgotten old mink stoles from decades long past; presumably from my own mother’s former wardrobe. And a half open door at the foot of the stairs leading into a vacant apartment just beyond. This series of empty rooms being the place without doubt that would serve as the beginning of another winding nocturnal visit into my own current verion of a personal underworld. A place promising no obtainable final destination beyond perpetual wandering alone; where all the earthly dangers of the forbidden are most likely to hold sway and prevail.
Those overly-trumpeted hidden fears of women, once human but now de-trained into savage beasts whose only language still understandable come from the raw end of a leather whip’s well salted scourge. The seat of perceived victim-hood where their id is retaught to move about on all fours dressed only in their own sweat with mouths perpetually salivating to potentially take in anything offered from roadside offal to a pulsating rubber cocks. Men standing frozen in manly poses within their midst flashing whips and business suits pretending to be competent masters. But in point of fact flash frozen in their tracks, scared out of their wits, on that point of realizing the fury of these beasts that they have let loose! Impotently demonstrating their foolishness in pathetic mock displays of power learn from birth as schooled in the arms of eternally angry females who will ultimately have their revenge through distancing. Such is the power of industrial duty angst!
That spark of uncontrollable spirit compressed deep within beneath an unwavering weight of commonly manufactured never ending fears.