What to do if the gun that you are shooting runs out of bullets? Or in case you haven’t noticed the phrase, “I feel as if I am being slowly starved to death!” Plenty of unacknowledged historical precedent around the world for that. Not only of food but of finding possibility in the future. There seems to be no room for the dreams of the aged in a world that can barely support the aspirations of the young. Many quietly ask themselves, “Does that mean that I am to be put out in a deserted part of the forest as a meal for wolves?” Metaphorically speaking, or maybe much more viscerally so, I believe that most of us have. The material obsessed corporate world doesn’t cotton to media designated losers or high waged non-producers. It daily writes a script that gets to call the tune as to what is fundamentally reasonable and what is lightheaded folly. Most days the logic of the two are purposefully reversed with the express purpose to confuse and create uncertainty. Better the consumer experience controlled uncertainty about the same old products re-dressed in thinly veiled colors than the other way around where real competition changes their business plan.
There is a certain amount of safety in numbers. If you are part of a tight knit group one increases their odds of experiencing a lesser degree of disruption. That is, unless you make it your business to let it into your life. Check out those rusty junkyard boom boxes with temporary plates that circle those doubtful paradises of urban ghettos as they stutter blame and discontent upon the mainstream of society. No doubt because the handouts afforded by ‘Big Fat Momma Welfare’ have been a bit more meager that usual. The alternate experience is of course anything considered comedy or drama on networked TV where the guy who still is expected to bring home the bacon each night becomes both boob and butt. His life experienced by howling primitive rituals of envious others who can only find their own personal solace in denigrating his at ever opportunity times two. The fact that the latest television monitors sold to “John and Mary Q Public” watch you as much or more than you watch them speaks volumes.
Part of the experience of life’s conundrum of existence is finding a certain degree of passion within the experiencing of it. A goal or a purpose, however trivial can act as the motivation for a life plan. The problem comes when the plan is no longer valid or no longer holds any attraction to the one that devised it. In a land where triviality has replaced the focus once afforded to common sense the devil is in the suspension of detail. Conveniently transparent soundbyte packaged scapegoats come and go every few days and the continual task of picking up the pieces of ceiling strewn about the room from the sky falling in on those occasions leaves one with a brain fraught by mental rubble. Clear thinking becomes impossible when daily existence is mired down in empty headed minutia of sports and who is wearing what and fucking who. The projected mirror of consumer identities also known as the movies is no longer designed to fit the expansive proportions of what was once considered ‘normal’ expectations for a comfortable life. Like a bad suit of clothes marketed at a Costco or Target contemporary existence is currently designed for someone of perfect Asian dimensions but not for the traditionally bilious proportions of older Europeans.
One might notice that the ultimate goal of those leaving youth from adolescence is to get all inked up sporting a rock hard six-pack. A perfect analogy for a future lifetime of continual diminished expectations and life under corporate custodians that consider all others as marketable ‘human resources.’ The state created revolution of the Internet providing the ultimate Judas goat for societies foolish enough to post all their resources upon it’s butcher block platform. Life expectancy of the human mind will continue to plummet towards single digits as the modern urban primitive movement for nose rings takes virtual hold. The slippery hard rock of morals will erode to dust that will blow back and forth solely governed on self-interest in a manner that continues to appease the powers that be. If your offspring are lucky they may be accorded the occasional honor of prize bull or calf held at the annual culling of the herd. Perhaps at this point those Ranids known as our reader might notice that their limbs and torso are beginning to boil over a bit. That is because the fingers controlling the burners below the pot might be getting a bit more anxious for their nightly portion of cuisses de grenouilles!
No matter how much I felt like trying to avoid it, I knew that I was doomed when I saw the rocket taking off in the distance. The slender pencil shape of the distant Redstone rocket that launched and misfired a mile or two away seemed to perfectly adjust to steer to my position on the clearing under the white canopy where I sat lounging upon the grass. I could feel the consternation of others of my party who being equally alarmed couldn’t believe my abject passivity to what appeared to be growing inevitability of the approaching doom. Yet they also were foolish enough to wait upon the signal of the demonstration of my own overt fear as an indicator to suggest the proper avenue of escape. Some finally took off in a variety of directions in an attempt to avoid the growing shadow of impending annihilation. Fate had applied a particularly perverse form of methodology to apply its judgement on my portion of the human ant kingdom. And though I was not one to willingly accept the vagaries of Fate’s decisive indifference, I would not be bullied by its suggested outcome attempting to easily manipulate the prerogatives of preserving my own existence.
The task of convincing ‘her’ that day seemed exceedingly prolonged and drawn out to the point that the process made me question the worthiness of enduring it through to the final outcome. These conversations wore on and I felt myself wandering for a time from the coffee counter of one store over to another coffee house cafe setting at the adjacent establishment. The extended conversation defaulted to Hitler’s boast that if he didn’t take the dangerous helicopter ride over the parade below and its accompanying cheering crowd, then who would? How its ending point fell upon the topic of matching Carolina blue plastic spoons to spaceships via the industrial process of injection molding defies any ability on my part to comprehend. I after all just found myself sitting there simply along for the ride.
The house sat upon a double sized lot that could survey open space that led to a panoramic view of the city int he far distance. The area might have been likened to a couple of different locales that he had known with greater familiarity during previous chapters of his existence. It would probably be evident only in hindsight that these other views were equally cogent and telling as to the mental makeup of his outlook on life. The patio of the house that he could recall from the start of adolescence. The stretch along the railroad line that his last greatest love and he would often tread. The house by the local country club that he occasionally pass by likening its abandonment and resurrection to the hopeful state of his own hopeful state for same.
The inside and outside of the setting seemed to meld as the patio contained many if not most of his most valuable possessions exposed to both elements and elemental view of wander alley borne passers by. This had not created any sense of contradiction in terms of fear of loss that overweighed some utilitarian convenience that keeping all these shelf bound curios in said exposed state. The real issue of immediate concern was how to make the appointment with his family despite warnings of incoming inclement weather. He gathered down a sighting glass and posited long and hard upon what other useful items might be leaned from this densely packed inventory. A quick peek around the back corner of the building revealed an amazing sight that would contradict not only his promise of an impending journey but suggest his immediate survival was dependent upon fast action to gain entrance to his basement.
There before his stunned gaze snaked an immense twirling cloud of angry black air stretching forth horizontally as if some terrible behemoth seeking prey. Behind it, the horizon had taken on an unexpected Payne’s grey angry demeanor. Despite the rapidity of the storms advance upon the vicinity, he became obsessed with which other items from the vertical cache of longtime treasures to grab and find quick refuge. The surrounding air went black in an instant as the winds hit turning visibility into a milkshake of disturbed soil and the discard of nearby airborne potpourri. The impact threatened his possibility of maintaining further balance and he had to drop what he had cradled in his arm in order to keep from being thrown immediately to the ground and tumbled away.
As with all things nocturnal and in the middle of the night, his subsequent journey found him in consort with the spirit of his deceased father, the two ventured out upon some indecipherable errand that might or might not have been completed. The time spent together was as usual, completely silent of conventional conversation though discourse seemed evident in common purpose. AS spirits came and went in such realms he was obliged to detrain sooner than expected. The lanes traveled found him left off not far from a former residence where he had to physically repackage a loaded sidearm,along with the accompanying holster and strap in such a manner to provide the minimum visibility to passing magistrates. The clip full of rounds now heavy in his pocket and discovery by some nosy pedestrian always a concern. The lift, it seems, had been immense, taking him from the field of some ongoing battle comradeship back to safe and comforting surroundings. Though circumstances routinely evidenced the fantastic, life at this point was small and matter of fact in its everyday proportions.