Its easy to live life with your head plunged into one vulva after another living on a half a donut a day. Fat, skinny, smelly, or occasionally sweet, the world of the single head of the household had its limits. Laying in decaying sheet tied with two others in yet another roadside hotel wondering when to skip this latest venue and find a better Casiotone and along with it a better act. This latest creature was a little skank who parked her darling daughter in the next room with grandma. Grandma doling out the night’s room rents out of the paltry contribution of her miserly S.S.I. Grandma unaware of our presence as night traveler’s who were handy with jimmying service doors and shimmying up fire escapes. Once again costly divided in yet another way! What can one expect in the glowing embers of a perpetually sad loveless life? An opportunity to voice ones sentiments on the side of integrity not simply surrendering one’s speech to the current appearance of a winning side. Hypocrisy to one day soon turn around to ones own plight going unanswered in terms of the recognition of past perfidies.
The time of evil doings is upon us it seems. Or so it seems? A last ditch enslavement by the current earthly powers of darkness descends. Seven shirts on a clothes line. Lucky number? Six of them faded and torn. Only the seventh has something discernible and potentially wearable. I keep looking in mirrors and see someone else. Someone older and slower. What are they supposed to know and what have they now, long forgotten? A pale representation of that former figure that was capable of living in reality. Now all seems fantastic! It is not I who stars as the primary avatar. Just another faceless unawares NPC. Someone watching a long trail of ants advancing up his arm to his throat. There presently to do fatal damage. Two sides of the abyss. The way in and the way out.
Nights in Atlantic, a farm town in the middle almost between DesMoines and Omaha tended to be cold in the Autumn times. You might awaken in the dead hours of early morning and poke a toe sidewards from under the covers and have to make a hard choice between getting out from under the warmth generated during the inactivity of rest to venture out to fulfill your daily routines. So often bound up in one’s self that it was generally impossible to think of anything else but that uncomforting imposition of same. A hot cup of coffee or a quick shower followed by some warm clothes mitigating that state of being allowing one to make a quick transition to other more pressing matters,
Yet this morning with the ill tidings of fearful demise just over the horizon he padded out from the toilet through the kitchen and into his lounge. The dim light from the street outside illuminating the shapes of the surrounding furnishings about his central dais. There he sat quietly like a newly discovered Bhudda contemplating his own long past hidden universe untended for so long. The one that each of these shadowy items called attention to with each turn of his head. The peace of the morning allowing each view to enjoy an instant of travel back to those long last times. Locations not revived for as long as several decades springing forth colorfully as if they might have just turned their attention towards in a single disparate instant. The sensation of being back in each respective time providing a quilt of awareness suggesting the presence of a long life having been lived thus far.
Having been pulled from these musing back into the inevitable frantic pace of a life that enigmatically ever demanded a timetable of prompt actions it seemed incomprehensible that he had actually enjoyed a timeless few moments of unhindered contemplation. One that was not embroiled in that endless chase to get there first and be prepared perfectly for any unspecified possibility of a demand awaiting him on hand. A long habituated sense of internal frenzy. Male and female and that un-breachable gulf of comprehension. Rarely if ever being on the same page despite inevitably being sired through the womb. Modern heresies aside one must reckon past servitude to old ideas inscribed by the first female to get along with the next. Rarely any room in-between for one’s own new found ways as far as the reckoning of the last. The price of initial ecstasy risking an existence of lifelong conformity of detente levied upon the two. Only external strife causing common interests salving the fissures with a default of togtherness to fend off all comers.
Too often further down the trail it is terrible to consider how far in the past one’s life’s beginnings have been left? Initial experiences lending a sense of adventure in unending discovery eventually over time leading to exhaustion. What was once clear now fogged over by the mist of doubts. The dwindling of expected abilities terrifying to allow one’s self any thought of a future to contemplate them within. The growing monotony of days balanced on a fulcrum that reminds one that the hourglass is now far past full. Only the small parts of daily existence left to assure that the remainder of the day in this emptied place continues to hold merit.