The old museum was on fire! Not burning in a conventional sense of the same, but being incrementally enveloped in a more undetectable smoldering sense. One where its unique one of a kind structure was smoldering from within. Some of my old friends and acquaintances with their pets still inhabiting within, I was anxious for their safety and tried to hurry along the progress of the evacuation of what they held dear before the entire wooden framework of its old eclectic five story structure might suddenly go from a slow charring consumption to burst into raging flame. A very strange feeling came upon me that I was trying to play a reversed role of savior. The task of bringing these people and their old world to safety, yet somehow performed in reverse. Acting like some backwards minded Noah shepherding these familiar others and their animals out of this place and over the small stream to find temporal safety standing on the other side of the superhighway. Yet, when it seemed all had been accounted for as having left this ancient edifice, now visibly being enveloped from within by smoke, I was compelled to return. I quickly challenged traffic to cross back over the buy six lanes of random cars and swiftly propelled myself back across the small bridge to re-enter this once all too familiar structure. The facade of the rotunda now having partially collapsed. Struck by a queasy feeling in my gut causing my lower limbs to tremble. Knowing that, all too soon, the entire store of my own long waylaid memories would be among the irretrievable casualties soon to be stolen within the building hazy atmosphere of the quickly charring timber. Compelled by some strange self-destructive force to crawl up a rough wooden ladder now before me irregardless of all consequences. My heart beating wildly as I mounted each tread into the oblivion of what had once been so painfully familiar. Now fearlessly disappearing slowly upward without hesitation into quickly descending cloud of dense smoke from those unseen flames several stories overhead right on the edge of bursting forth consuming all within the pitch black darkness. All just to search out what had so long ago been lost, yet up to then, had never been my priority to recover.
Long ago in ancient days when many mortals upon the earth heeded the omens of the stars it was said that some were fated to be in opposition in a manner much like the counterposed orbits of comets elliptically encountering planets. How like that would there be in my case with one Lady Barbara. An ever impressive solitary body hurtling the heavens possessing an attraction that far outclassed my own energetic elliptical abilities to bring it into my own circle. Our previous encounters some twenty years previous proving disastrous to both. My own psyche driven by some inexplicable desire to possess her live but ever fearful of being found inadequate and wanting of being exposed for the fool that I felt to be inside. My left foot every in conflict with my right as to where it should have been that like a bull in a China shop I could ever rely on saying or doing the exactly wrong thing in her presence. But like the ever ready moth prepared to singe my wings at any opportunity to tempt a fate that I knew was hopeless in my case.
Barbara you see was from a blue blood sort of stock. A product of the southern tip of an adjoining state where success in all things was not a matter of accident but long and careful breeding. Her manner always holding to a decorum that silently declared itself to be one of royal bloodline. Her own father no doubt a terrible and efficient monarch of the extended family for whom wealth and standing was a natural spring bound fountain who merely had to walk forth to bring forth a brook of prosperity. And Barbara herself her own kind of watch spring tightly wound form of erudite precision in feminine beauty in terms of heredity and immediate presence. Much like a Circe she could charm and entrance mortal man into swine with a simple glance. Most terrifying was the fact that whatever she tried her hand at she seemed accomplished at. Perhaps a curse in a stilted world of rich entrepreneurial minded suitors? One of whom that she had married and had a male child with.
My initial encounter with her own orbit being strictly egregious and out of sync in disrupting her standing as the head of an arts organization run by another who we had both respect and affection for. The next pass being more agreeable a year or two later when I had returned from another drama that had sent me half way around the globe in pursuit of another failed romantic quest. While I sun about at my limits far away she was violently crashed about by the loss of her husband to some unspecified infidelity. One that left their marks of his angry clenched fists upon her diminutive frame for a while after. The turn of events sending her tumbling into an unstable past to encounter another minstrel and to my view mountebank. An egotistical self-centered musician that was in my own myopic view of things a deadly rival to my growing desire to have her.
One is always tripped up by their own dreams seeming breaching the waking world in fables that one spins as they see them apparently coming to pass. An for a while as someone besotted by their own animal lust I was driven to obsession and a persistent attempt to woo her away. Yet at those times when her path perceived with him seemed to wobble it was I alone who at the last second veered away in trepidation. In fear it seems of being trapped and set upon by the potential of a monumental cosmic farce that would bring me to light not just as a silly fool overstepping their bounds but a dupe. And thus caught up more in my own hesitations I designed the funeral carriage that carried me like a walking corpse to my own eventual rendezvous to an inevitable break. My heart sinking leaden to the cold depths of an ocean of despair wrecked it seemed caught from that point on far below the surface of ever finding common course set to that boundless store of love I felt for her hopelessly remote.
Those otherworldly nightly tides of some two decades hence designing a scenario within which I was thrown up unexpectedly upon her shore once again. She a mistress of her own gallery and established in some safe and anonymous small town practicing her own form of fine art based expression. What seemed innocuous to the understanding of most as a simple series of finely upholstered booths being an analogy most dear to explaining her own sad star crossed inner self. Those unnamed phantom doppelgangers of my past actions accompanying me recklessly displacing the carefully laid cushions as if it mattered naught. A lightning bolt strike of fear coursing up my spine as I saw those old ways between us taking hold. The other artifacts within her museum in danger of similar disregard while I was caught up and helpless in a newly rekindled sense of loving regard. One by one at each station of her cross she providing a brief explanation of the meaning of a new carefully manufactured conundrum. Each in jeopardy of being trammeled in a way so uncannily similar to the very ways she had been in the past.
Dead suitors long ago notwithstanding in abandon of that solitary husband long dead in terms of her own regard. I inquired most awkwardly out of turn with the gravity of the moment as to the whereabouts of her son. That solitary offspring that had formerly been the centerpiece her own emotional conflict. He posed as a fleck of sand exposing her pain in being found wanting as a mother in conflict with the pearl of her own overwhelming ambitions that superceded his needs. The curse of my own folly coming back from the long forgotten shadows to trip me up once again. Saying the wrong thing and doing the wrong thing but worse yet showing a weak form of indecision in the commission of same. The fact of her own susceptibility for being seduced by the next waiting tragedy to burden her never occurring to me. Both of us condemned in our own ways to perpetual martyrdom that was a source of indescribable guilty delight. Her last disclosure of a final work in her hiring an unnamed unwavering assassin to posthumously eliminate all that had sullied with her. The chilly realization on my own part that somewhere down on the bottom of that list was inscribed my own name.
The bar was packed that Saturday afternoon. Five miles on foot was no longer as easy as it once seemed. The bar tools were almost all taken up along the narrow passage toward the toilets and gaming machines. Three bars tools remaining open at the gap where the barmaid had exit. A logical place to sit amidst all the purely male grunting and growling at the sports of the moment broadcast high up on the back wall. The patter about the latest contenders in the cyclical round of sports teams wrangling for another temporal privilege to be denoted the best. Best quickly being supplanted by another form of trivial competition that would for the moment be supreme. The Big guy at the bar stuck out his paw at the newest member. Softer old well worn office flesh grinding against working man callous. The palaver offered in unrecognizable rising stars and the coming season’s end competition that would close out the past year’s interest. The young female playing bartender passing through her gap sensing her salutation by way of asking the newcomer’s preference. The man having made sporadic appearances over the previous year answering by pointing to the full bottle in her grip. “The same!”, he added. The small girl halted in mid step she ceded the bottle and returned to the cooler behind her to wrestled out another glass soldier for the other unnamed party whisking by to serve the substitute bottle. Albeit a few seconds late.
Perhaps this old geyser was an oddity and not quite unfamiliar to her curiosity. Indifferent to the televised squabbles portrayed by mouth and tongue of flat screened past their prime former performers. He seemed more entertained by the ceremonies of male worship of large men going down the path towards impotence and little remaining social regard. Their drinking and the wealth of pocket required to continue it a peacock driven display of their manhood. Not so the unnamed stranger. The resident house brute a stool away asking his name. Pleasantries exchanged the conversation now took up the topic of weather. The bridge being a statistical quip noting the irregularity of the expected season for the showdown between the two best teams at the holy of hollies. The felicity of the old man’s staring in return interrupted after an interval as he simultaneously waved a tenner in the air to attract the barmaid to the fact that this one bottle green would be his one and only of the day. She asked, “Just one?” He replying to the effect that one being useful to take the edge off of so many miles on foot. Several miles more than usual no longer being as easily traversed as had once been the case. Adding that his drinking habits had descended into what was once considered reasonable by society of years past. The response breaking the plastic visage of her standard act leading to a momentary stony repose.
She offered a tiny heresy that she didn’t even like beer. The declaration and the manner that sh had delivered it revealing an insight that this was a job that she did for money not any sort of personal relish. The hairy old swollen animals along the length of the bar to the entrance a stool bound raging sea of wild beasts. This establishment a man cave bound lair for mildly voicing the discontents of the day of lives gone sour in the reflection of young men tasked to offer the best of what men were supposedly meant to. Physicality remaining here no where near the aptitude or requisite strength to even partially approach it. More rounds of beers being quickly ordered after attentive angst to slosh away missteps of their televised avatars. The old guy at the end of the bar staring unimpressed like a weed up the backside. A lighting spark of an electric more timeless connection between him and the young girl’s confession leading to an affirmation. The world the way it should be having no place in the modern world of a society gone mad on the perception of its own technical invulnerability. Something changed as evidenced by a silence. The game was revealed like the harpoon ridden back of the often storied white whale of old coming up momentarily. Yet all too soon to sound its hoary evidence of old pain back into the deep again. The heart and matters pertaining to the same getting no public airing lest it demonstrate the vulnerability of some weakness. Weakness an old man’s province. Another bar stool prone old inmate far off a testament to blunted manhood. The conversation concluding with the customary gift of advise against indulgence posed in inverted logic.
The sterling moment past, the old sage drained the dregs and picked up his stakes. His grizzly companion of the moment pressing the flesh hard once again. A tumbling rock bouncing politely past the gauntlet of beefy growlers venting their mild frustrations. Coming to rest before his doppelgänger enthroned at one of the two small tables at the front window. Both offering a wrinkle graced grin-like grimace. The table before him sporing a paper plate slice of pizza and a small plastic picnic bowl of tiny pretzels. Light fare for this old pensioner. The jovial gaoler on his way offering, “Two squares a day and all the beer you can drink!” “What a life!” The other old insect stuck upon a pin of a bar stool answering with an equally jovial nod of appreciation for being acknowledged. The bar’s interloper now outside under the cool blue of afternoon’s fade into beginning of the year’s ecliptic bound darkness. The world would assuredly tip back towards light in the coming months. A sense of assurance appreciated for that young man struggling mightily within the slow decay of another old man’s frame. Despite all the memories past of lives encountered and discarded by time he was still very much alive.
The evening had descended upon his biology several hours earlier than expected. The year’s end. It was as normal one could suppose. Way too normal to him. Sufficient warmth, a full belly and a roof over his head yet the reliable stillness engendered emptiness. And while this was not inordinately disturbing it had a nagging quality that required some diversion to keep him from pondering it obsessively. Old movies, Internet or oblivion. The outside at five-thirty in the afternoon more aptly resembled nine o’clock at night. There hadn’t been an evening in the last two weeks that he had stayed awake past seven. A degree of embarrassment in not being able to last past ten. But what was the use? No one was around to disappoint. No one to embarrass. No one to hide how empty his current existence was. It had not always been so. The night was long and maybe much longer than was bearable at this point. What had happened to that far away bygone memory of a world of happiness and someone there to be in love with? Did it ever exist to begin with?
He had been living on a merry go round for as long as he could recall. The notion of fame and glamor as industrially presented throughout his life keeping him in limbo of constant expectation near to fruition. Yet without ever attaining anything of substance. Things that seemed to be touchstones for use to find instant success were found soon as naught to simply become successive waves of empty useless junk. The vacuity that they inspired was ever too obvious to others who felt that his priorities were ever elsewhere. His innocence lost in ceaseless ambition.for his own personal conception of the brass ring gleaming ever more golden at every pass yet ever out of reach. And now he had to live with the fact that this quest had ruined him for the very world that he had desired. That it had all past by him as a result of his own gullibility and foolishness. But why? Something that he might have asked himself many years back without hope of receiving a fit reply. But now approaching the other side of the mountain the answer to explain it had become all too clear. He was a fool. A fool with a lifetime of hard won knowledge come of the hard knocks endured and stowed deep down below out of sight to stew and fester away until today. That was why he realized that going through the motions of an empty dream could no longer provide any sense of piece.
The world was a lonely place because he had not taken the effort to find someone to share it with. To follow what was the normal course of personal evolution of a growing bond of love as found in producing offspring and gaining happiness as well as enduring sadness. But doing so together. It seemed clear to him now. Yet to say so aloud was not possible as it might sound like a voice other than his own pronouncing sentence on one condemned. What did it matter to a society of others if his view of things as they really were held some degree of meaning or influence? It was just a vanity come of a sense of latent insecurity that needed proof of his worth in a contest with phantoms that in the end mattered little now that he had conquered his curiosity about such things. They had turned out in the end to be fictions that dissolved into further unrealities that ultimately led to the consequence of misguided actions. Something a trained bear might sense in its cage hearing the far off melody of other things wild and free. All it could do now far removed is growl and slobber laying listless head upon its paws. Stare out at the world beyond those bars and try to find a way to thank those bars for keeping him safe for what he was no longer fit or able enough to survive.
It was still dark. The tangle of dreams lodged like wheat paste inside the porch of his consciousness demanding a sort before the entire contents was removed to someplace unknown. Were there any pearls of wisdom to be had in his own mental chest of drawers? He could recall the presence of his long departed parents with him. The conversation being something about cleaning out the remaining items somewhere up on a higher floor of the old house built in the nineteen twenties that they had held as income property when he himself was a very young man. The confusion of fading recall that quietly beset him suggesting to his waking mind a conversation centered upon items of his that he had left there long ago, Having been overindulgent in his youth in over coddling him thoughout most of it, not to mention a portion of his adulthood, they had unhesitatingly taken on the task. When he realized that his musing within the nocturnal cloud of wispy presence that these aged spirits had taken on the task merely at his conjuring the thought alone he ran up to the upper level and found the apartment completely cleared out, A bare red rug freshly vacuumed and all other evidence of his former habitation completely removed. This stunning surprise having been relieved of so many half forgotten things classified and logged in vague memory now impossible to recall beyond the fact of their disappearance. He gazed out the back porch window but could find no evidence of anything waiting for pickup by the gate to the alley.Apparently the ledger book in some strange way had been completely cleared?
The sky sitting out beyond the open blinds was not yielding more than an occasional twinkle from far off distant fireflies waiting for clearance from the airport. All was stillness and calm aside from the quiet brushing sound of cars passing over a thin layer of snow that had descended lightly. A new day predicating another new dawning had bustled up against the indeterminate time since slumber had carried him away the evening previous. The number of colorful tiny lights glowing upon the land seemed diminished. Sunday was upon all as the rumble of a nearby car motor struggled to shake off the coldness from its engine block with its growling pistons. The proposition of another day was slowly being discussed in the actions of a few others who had already come to a definite conclusion. The question for himself now being could he shake himself out of the grip of all things past now that he had a sign that it had been cleared away for him? The engine without suddenly fell silent. The cavern of near silence that it left in its wake seemed to demand something definitive from him. A whole new line of thought that was completely unfamiliar. Maybe even intimidating! How to pick up stakes from all things long gone and move on without looking back. It seemed to him sitting there that the first step had already been taken for him.
It was obvious. And maybe painfully so? Obvious that my era and the perspective of the gender description that went along with it in terms of the critical theory that went along with its description was not in vogue. Rounding the corner into the classroom where I had been allowed to sit in was fraught with the usual combative possibilities of being set upon by both student and professor in consort who might at any point declare the zone safe by demanding the immediate exclusion of my presence. I imagine that just the act of opening my mouth aloud with a simple question no matter how politically correct or innocent was potential dynamite. So I sat through the lecture portion in silent bright eyed attentiveness seemingly accepting of any and all propositions offered. I showing no evidence of any hostile inner suffering in silence due to propositions advanced that quite expectedly demeaned my own sex as the price of the current currency of identity politics based truth. The room itself set up as if some great round table empty centered arrangement now where my position by the room entrance looked diagonally far across what instantaneously into an extremely large mattress with tightly pulled white sheets. My ideological adversary peering back at me with an inert emotionless as if prepared to be nonplussed by and of the expected responses that my outward cliche would no doubt attempt to pass off by way of awkward attempts of guile. Instead, I offered a full uncompromising acceptance of all the points of her lecture with the caveat that I pose a line of questioning about defining my own dilemma as an artist. Since the resultant silence seemed to suggest that there was no outward objection to this as it was assumed that I would hang myself anyway with the same old hierarchical male prejudices I began voicing my inquiry.
Considering that all art was functionally equivalent despite any sophistication of technique and reducible to the expression of the previous personal experience of uncounted numbers of those that had come before the notion of Post-Modernism’s ad hominum’s in service of a general group based dimension overshadowed the importance of the creator of the same. Did not this create a crisis bound situation with the ego of the artist that took on an ideological dimension that could not help reflect a negative individual based political reality that was too often predatory in disparaging a minority due to ingrained prejudices? Given this being a reality how was a given male individual able to offer their body of work as valid in the face of being seen as a potential insurgent to the grand sceme of a society that was attempting to adjust for the past ideological biases? Should I as an artist abandon my own progression as being same for the fact of this undeniable truth? The silence that my carefully posed question floated upon in slow motion making it across the wide gap of white damask lingered for a while. I imagined at one point that there may have been no intention of addressing it though it was obvious that it had been carefully posed in the context of the current politically Leftist perspective. Yet after a pregnant pause of what seemed a number of minutes of indifference my mistresses words in respose came back towards my direction. Though not kind to me directly as an individual in the sense of acknowledging my own individual stake in the conversation there was a larger narrative posed that took on a proposition that suggested a universality of purpose as being a predicate. A litmus test of values where self expression by myself was permissible if it acknowledged the source of my efforts intent as being respectful and no more important than the efforts of any other artist. That as long as I fully surrendered title to any dominance as a white European male showing deference before other group identities that my kind had proven a history of creatively overwhelming then what I offered could be considered as an acceptable artistic expression.
As I watched her in my own respectful earnest silence I could not help but feel a certain degree of worshipful eroticism coming forth from within. Something ad odds with her outward physical semiotics of dyed pussy hat pink faded coloring of her hair or the ‘uber’ hip resale store glad rags. Something that by the fact of her terse somewhat extended long response to my own carefully chosen words suggested some inquisitive curiosity. A characteristic unconscious animal attraction come of being petted and despite being naturally hostile to the owner of the hand doing so enjoying the nature of the verbal transaction. It seemed equally curious that her outer third wave Feminist demeanor that previous to this situation could have only been expressed in a dynamic of being lesbian now seemed indescribably softer. As she continued the classroom slowly transformed. The center portion of the room being a boudoir and the two of us now locked in a sort of coitus not so much expressed in the physical as a common didactic that was locked together within the sheets of this grand central mattress. Time like wine getting away from us both the two of us finding ourselves in a verbally compromised morning after of trying to silently reconcile to ourselves what we had respectively given up as opposed to what we had come to share. Thanking fate that the student body previously about the classroom had graciously disappeared before we became engaged thus in such intellectual intimacy. How odd it seemed that such ideologically diametric opponents could come to share such explosively joyous intimacy. Yet, that was, after all, the wonderful timeless magic of animal human nature.
The turkey dinner stunk. He sat in the easy chair finally relieved to be sitting. The marathon of two days had come to a climax. Early perhaps, but all the same exhausted. The drill was to be some sort of sentimental ritual of fond holiday remembrance. Recollection of times past when Christmas dinner was a regular event. An event that sometimes felt like the experience was becoming overly trite. But in light of the passing of a decade and a half had returned to the status of beyond extraordinary. Unfortunately, the noble attempt had been a failure. Not a total failure though. The turkey report four days previous stated the possibility of an outbreak if Salmonella ridden turkeys. And so he had put in the freezer when the frig seemed to have a slight off odor. Later it was apparent that the smell was from a poorly chopped red onion. The result was a certain level of insecurity as to whether his efforts to thaw in twelve hours before that after testing various scenarios from washing in tepid water and chipping away ice from the interior he was risking a waterlogged bird with all the natural juices removed. It seemed at that point it couldn’t cook right. But miraculously with a liberal transfusion of butter and thyme with a few rosemary sprigs and lime interposed apple slices in its chassis.
Where he went wrong was his timing. The two Pyrex dishes of bread dressing being perfectly cooked and set upon the burners on the stove. But to his mind needing to stay warm until the point of serving when he came back from a prearranged brunch. The minutes ticking down, he dumped the two of them back in the oven with the turkey. All the way there he knew he had made a mistake. Little did he expect that the contents of both pans would turn black as a cinder! Things seemed to go downhill from there. By the time he had everything in control enough to serve himself half of it was barely edible. The subsequent cleanup of the many greasy pots, pans, utensils as well as dishes of all sizes was prophetic in scale. Now of course that world had all been restored to a former sense of prior order. One that had been in force as set by the original owner of the utensils. He had tried their use and had found a new respect for the quiet dilemma shared each year by his dear departed mother. Her expertise had been honed to razor sharpness at that point when the small family had been installed in its first new house. A one story mid-century suburban property that sat tabla raza in a brand new subdivision that had been carved from a tract of former farmer’s field. The center of town persisting to declare itself as remaining part of a bygone era when Cyrus McCormick had them among his best customers in the heyday of bountiful crops corn or wheat. Now it served as a canvas for all their dreams to erase the hopelessness of an terrible economic depression and the war that had been waged in part to defeat it.
Some of these current utensils served as important artifacts in the entertainment rituals that his two parents put forth to attract the envy and admiration of other’s of their own generation. Siblings of my mother and my father’s mother, stepfather and half sister. Those few good years when they were allowed to demonstrate their coming success that less than a half decade would elude them. One by one these sets of merry making holiday tools were deposed to storage in the back of cupboards or redefined into more mundane uses for carrying on everyday existence. Some had been handed over by his maternal grandparents and provided lasting utility as a backup for others more modern but of a lesser quality. Thus many had earned a certain nobility in his mind as veterans from former eras of celebrations that were now nothing more than the inference of old phantoms, His weariness had led him to retire not very long after the setting of the Sun on the far horizon past the apartment’s vertical blinds. He had fallen into a stupor barely able to keep his balance as he staggered to the bedroom with the intent to turn in early. The fast erratic heartbeat of drum synthesizing the aura of amplified electric bass suddenly shaking his chambers. Somewhere below or above voices were now raised in unrestrained joyfulness. Some of them perhaps as foolishly careless and free as those of his own parents had been in their heyday. The cycle of the hopefulness of life was playing itself out once again in his vicinity just out of reach yet clearly evident.
The silence about the bedroom woke him up gently to the somber droning of the melancholy of some Middle European symphony composed in the latter half of the previous century when the horrors of the second great war were still fresh. The booming music conducted by the concrete and its sudden choruses of ebullient joyfulness now gone as if they had merely a passing folly of his imagination. The impressions currently leaking from his rising consciousness telling of a solitary old codger that had joined the party. But the party had been transposed to another place and time in an appreciation of the world as it might have been nearly a hundred years back. The joyfulness of a candy emporium or bakery with fresh newly baked odors and muslin banners and tapestry’s declaring the imminence of a new year. Smiling female faces ripe for the play of mind boggling word games and the reward for the right guess in decorative party favors. Celebration and unbounded happiness having no reason beyond its appearance in the moment. His own white whiskered bald pate’d avatar pointing to the ceiling with an impish grin declaring to the entire party,”What is another name for cupcake?” His consciousness now regained within these opposing symphonies playing each in their respective low volume and he laying cat-like and rested beneath the coverlet diagonal upon his bed. Had it all been a dream he wondered as his eyes rolled slowly towards the passage door of the bedroom. The dim glow of Christmas resting warm upon it dimly reflected by relay from that still illumined effigy within the next room. The faux armature of a small tree packed with all its old family trinkets casting its still brilliant old burning memories forth from this passage of another Christmas. It’s heritage now resplendent in the first hours of the commencement of a new day soon to come to pass.
Here I lay in this rumpled bed in the midst of dark unknown like four-hundred million plus little known dots littered across the landscape. My only wish is to not have my final curtain call be despoiled and deemed a failure. For I have burned out it seems like an old light bulb. Something that is inevitable after all considering that humanity is merely a tik and a tok of a swinging arm. One that though seeming tireless must come to a standstill in the end. It is the nature of the universe to give and then take away.
It is safe to speak when there is no one about to hear the different fallacies that one holds onto with dear life. Those things that forgive but never explain. Those things that elucidate but never tempt fate. Yes!, I could have been somebody! But for whom? For that rambling current known as society? Would I be any better off forgotten after my heyday than any other luminary that had been used as a mortal cross to be worshiped for a while and then discarded within a dusty basement. Ah yes, it’s better to lay here amidst the shrouds of tomorrow as they descend from the air so graciously in a billowy chlorine bleached fantasy. One of perfection in clean houses that are a simply matter of a single digit upon a single digit upon the lever of a spray bottle. What else can one hope for? What else can one desire but perfection? Perfection and eternity! However, check with the man upstairs before turning in your over coat ticket to make sure that the proper is doled out in an appropriate fashion.
Believers! What do believe in beyond belief itself? A notion that forms and elite in your imagination. One that you belong to. And perhaps, no one else. A set of preconceived notions? No doubt! Something to act as a bulwark against chaos? Of varied experiences that will surely come to be. How destabilizing to be at the vagaries of other fellow human beings. In the belly of the beast being bustled about. Thinking some how that your diligence and industry is getting you somewhere. When in fact you are the bottom feeder. The dejected class. The group in an affinity that spread like wheat paste is spread thin upon walls papered over with foolish notions. The legacy of the fathers and the sweet harmony of the best wishes of one’s mother all cemented together. All to what end? To what purpose beyond eventual and ultimate futility in a rhythm and rhyme of continued banal fantasy.
A mystery of male and female. The uterus is a house where many times no one is at home. And the fascination of the male seems forever put up to docking at that door. Most time to hear a hollow sound. And to come with the bright idea that his seed alone can fill it. When in reality there are many room storehouse many men’s seed. All to bring out another, possibly, like one’s self. Possibly a male? Or, possibly a female! There is no third party. It is only a delusion of society that can create other genders and try to make them stick. What a worthless useless strange game of let’s see what I can get away with this week! Powerless men seem to want to squeeze and poke and grab. To spread and push and penetrate! But what will they find at the end of the day but a flabbier more fearful sense of themselves. Stalwart, perhaps? Yet ever needy and demanding. “Be careful young man of whom you choose!” For you might get someone as perverse as yourself. And then what? The most immediate mystery of the dual nature of the biped. Who is right and who is wrong? And how can it ever be solved or patched up? That is an ongoing dilemma.