Saturday, April 05, 2014

Where the Gray Sky Meets the Sea of the Same Color

Whenever I look at the sky here, the thoughts like the clouds gather and bloom to fruition. I know for a fact that you wonder, and I wander within these alternate universes. I traverse them, you transcend them. Lost in the past you are, as if that forth dimension we call time is as flexible as your own dubious will. You hack away at it, and burrow into memories that have no meaning, no relavence. It's as wispy as the tendrils of those cooking fires of our ancestors, where what has occurred might as well have been inside our imaginations. Why do you remain? -Where I had looked out upon that swelling and foamy ocean for many passing years without an inkling of anything, except perhaps for the song of its waves crashing against those cliffs below. Driftwood and the jetsam was all that ever gathered on the sand, to only be arranged unnaturally by whomever inhabitant may have been about, passing by, trespassing, building obtuse constructions.
I find it strange now. The land behind me, the little house at the rim, weather-worn and wanton. I can make out the wind, and how it beats against it, while the water sprays on my cheek and stings with saltiness. I hope you're listening to it. Can't you tell what's happened? You know, I have always believed that the will is the most underrated thing in this world. I never discounted it. The worst thing there ever was to me were the words, "it cannot be done." Whenever I would hear that, if to rephrase it for the speaker, "it won't be done." 
It is all a decision. Then, another is added, and then another. Each of them built on the previous. So many in fact that you forget how the foundation was laid. Is it sturdy, is it flimsy? You have no idea. Instead, you cloak and conceal and lose yourself to the labyrinth of your own creation. 
You are there now in fact; shouting, reaching with hands out, stumbling blind in the darkness. It has always been like that.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

It Is No Time to Be Pensive

I draw what I see. I write what I see. If it is to the contrary, the effect is akin to a gust of hot wind blowing through the chaparral. The dust kicks up
and twirls in the air, then vanishes without a perceptible trace. That "otherworld" is a dream, like a dream, where I can only walk while it's between night and day. In other words, where reality and imagination wrest for control. I live there, in that place. 
So I think as I sit here. The air is cool and wet. There is music riding on it. The songs chosen for their safeness. Cold rain-strewn tables and chairs await my coming. People zip by on bikes, stroll briskly through dodgy droplets. Some gaze out windows, faces illuminated by cloud-diffused sunlight. 
A man with a long sleeve purple shirt enters. He wants to use the Wifi. The employees tell him the place is about to close. They suggest other locales. He says, "No worries," and quickly leaves. Their politeness must fade, like the Doppler effect of a speeding moped racing away, and on and on. 
"Well," I say, "It's time for me to get out of your hair."
They quietly laugh, then say, "See ya."
I wave goodbye and head away to rewind. Yes, rewind. Grasp those wind bitten fingers around the tarnished brass key and twist and twist. I'll be listening to the clicks possessing longer and longer dwells between them; it's another Doppler effect, red-shift. It's in another form, but it's there. It has happened every day of my life, for good or bad, poor and poorer. I recognize it as we would the moon, or the breath that exhales, or the suspense of catching a bus that is rolling away. It's no time to be pensive.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Parking Cars on Hills During an Evening Rain

It's raining. The evening is already a caliginous orange and black. Orange from the sodium, black from, well you know. I wait in a solitary place. I am so close, yet so far from every interaction. It seems like it is always this way. I remember some lines from a movie, given this. 
One character said to the other, "We all die alone."
It might be the same. 
Regardless, there is fog on the window that I look through to the outside. Cars, lights, people, and their corresponding sounds and smells are muted and blurred. It's too bad too. There is much beauty within these asphalt strewn streets. Too much of it is hidden. Hidden by those that would otherwise see it, and also by those that may even possess it. Instead, they act as though the water falling from the sky is their enemy. They attach misery to it; as if Nature herself were tormenting them. Perhaps she is. Maybe it was meant to be. -But if it is, so what? We all must endure. And in the end, we all must die.

Friday, November 08, 2013

Connotation Conundrums

I wouldn't call it, "keen." It is more,"sharp," than anything else. The voice cuts through the racket of the rattling diesel here in the back of route #5, and leaves me feeling numb. The sharp one drones on and on about the future of high school students: standardized testing, college applications, and how things should be verses the current reality. The older woman, the other half of this palaver speaks so silently that the discussion resembles more of a one-sided telephone conversation that mothers have with their sisters about family drama.
My dropping of the eaves is interrupted by a stop that yields a thin man attired in an orange windbreaker. As he seats himself in the side-facing row next to me, I cannot get the scent of shredded wheat out of my nose. 
However, this recent smell-onslaught gradually fades as the sharp one says, "It's almost like they have to talk to someone with successful experiences. You know like talk to the right person so that they can understand what it takes to be successful." 
Her words are wearisome. I hear this kind of dreary talk almost everywhere I go, where both people nod in agreement to such profoundly obvious declarative statements and consequently feel wonderful and self-fulfilled afterwards. They both are glowing from it even now.
Again, my mind is distracted from these two by the guy next to me. The smell wafts over again, assaulting the nose and the concentration in writing these words. He takes extra long to shift to another open seat from crowding me against the sharp one's seat back. When he finally does, that shredded wheat aura of his reduces to a quiet background buzz to the consciousness. Those now encapsulated within his spherical inverse square shredded wheat field are activated from the statuesque still to rampant fidgeting. It's only a theory as to why. One back row inhabitant makes his arm straight, lifts it so that it is normal to his body, then continuously wiggles his fingers. He repeats this process with his opposing hand over a series of five minutes. The one next to him starts rooting through his many sacks and bags, the paper and cellophane crackling  as an adversary to the sharp one's nonstop apparent monologue. 

Senses, overload.

Tuesday, October 01, 2013

Still, They Walk

Sugar maples with leaves whose tips were dipped into fire, they waver in the chilling autumn breeze. Smattering of cold rain droplets streak on windows. Stratus clouds blow eastward nap-of-the-earth, uncaring to all else. Commuters stroll underneath, dressed mostly in black and gray, with the occasional red, blue, and brown. Cars, trucks and buses streak downtown streets, bustling to make it through the next stale green traffic light. Requests are made, then subsequently denied. Government shutdowns, labeling genetically modified foods, failed home invasions, unaffected stock exchanges, climate change, and repeat bank robberies are discussed ad nauseum. Still, they walk. 

Thursday, September 26, 2013

One Possessed

 The morning gnaws on my fingers, beleaguers the sight with gray, and infuses misty elements feigning the arid. I quietly take my seat. The bus doesn't get much farther when a whole group steps up. Down the aisle walks an indescribable man of unknown age, a young woman with terrible hair, and an older lady taking up the rear. All three make eye contact with me. It's a practice I engage in from time to time to garner whether I've met them before in a previous life. Not a one is recognizable, to my memory anyway. The one with terrible hair gazes at me the longest before seating herself in the row across. The old woman sits directly behind her, immediately dropping her bag with a clatter. 
"Oh!" She cries out.
She bends slowly at her thick waist and manages to lift it in a glacial sense; much akin to a building crane with a steel beam. The one with terrible hair twists at the neck to get a better look at the rather rudimentary occurrence. Then, statisfied, turns back to whatever thoughts consume those with terrible hair.
About four more city blocks goes by and the next stop harvests my own spontaneous  row-companion. He is an older man dressed in a windbreaker, jeans, and a purple ball cap. He has been thumbing through today's Seattle Times, spread out to maximum, marginally encroaching on personal space. In timing that appeared so coincidental that aroused suspicions, the old woman drops her bag yet again at the moment that Mr. Purple Cap makes a move to enter my row. The sack striking the floor has a new quality bang-like sound. The terrible haired one again repeats her previous performance and watches as Mr. Purple Cap goes out of his way to lift the old woman's belonging off the floor. 
"I've had a rough morning," the woman says through an engaging smile.
Once the old man sits down, terrible hair turns back to those iridescent mental wheels that presumably spin with whatever happened assigned some level of importance.
I sit here writing this with Mr. Purple Cap stealing a look at the words in periodic frequency. He does so with inconspicuous intent, attempting disguise as appearing interested in the traffic out the window. Let's say I am, "not encumbered by facts." I don't care really. At this point in life, all that was cared about is gone, and all that is now, is better for it. It is a strange portal from the waking and living nightmare, to the waking and living peace. It is so much so that I think of those times as lived by another person, as one possessed. 

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

Just One More Nip

The last of the bourbon whiskey scurries down my throat. The light burn is a welcome sensation within this pressurized vessel. I observe a balding middle-age man push up his tray. He attempts to lock it into place without actually locking it into place. He fumbles with the hinge linkage, as if the answer lay (or is it, lie?) there. The tray seems to stay in place for about three-point-five seconds, then falls. The man throws his arms up in frustration. He attempts the same philosophy, which had failed previously. The tray slams down. The man shakes his head. His hands convey exasperation. He pushes it up again. He fumbles with the actual lock, but rotates it in the incorrect direction. This turns out to be counterclockwise, by the way. The tray slams down. This time, exasperation is exasperated. The man simply pushes the tray back up in a fluid motion, as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had occurred. I might think he has it, but one never knows. He gingerly affects the locking tab. He pushes it counterclockwise again. I want to get up. I want to do it for him. This is affecting me, and I am not sure why. I mentally step back. I take a deep breath. This is not my issue. This is not my problem. Not everyone can be even a little bit mechanically inclined. Not even a little bit. These words are flowing. Why is that? They do not ebb, but stream out like candy from a beaten and broken piƱata. I want this feeling to last. It is a hopeful thing. It is foolish, but hopeful. Hope is a good thing, correct? Sometimes I am not sure. I enjoy a dash of certainty, even though I truly love the unknown. Perhaps I request another one. Yes, I think so. I will. Just one more. Just a little something. Just one more nip.

Murdering in Tuxedoes

My shoulder is constantly being struck by the passerby. The food cart, the belly, the elbow, the hip, and the butt. I try in vain to shift into the row to avoid such impacts. I am not at all wide in nature, even though I could be accused of being tall. I hear the words of apology from the polite, and the impassive expressions of indifference by the rude. At times, some fly like uncontrollable asteroids more than once. It interrupts my overlooking an old movie involving a murderous tuxedo-cocktail dressed duo. They are on a cruise ship, these richly clad folk. Soon, a man fakes being shot by his accomplice, then rushes unseen to the cabin of a sleeping woman. He aims carefully at her head with a derringer and pulls the trigger. His accomplice later slices the neck of one woman, and blasts another with a revolver to the forehead. Women dropping like flies on a boat from Egypt, the ship finally pulls into a harbor infested with flies. 
Overhead, the captain announces imminent arrival. He is followed by the lead attendant extending the announcement. The ears begin to pop. 
Seriously though, did once upon a time people really spend their time aboard a cruise ship always dressed to the hilt? No wonder there was so much murdering, all that discomfort. I'd kill just to wear shorts.

Friday, July 12, 2013

The Blue Shift of Its Coming Ends Just as Swiftly as Its Red Shift of Its Going.

Middle Eastern music belts forth into the cool and cloudy summer evening from a speeding yellow taxi. Its construct is of the hybrid model of the most popular make. The blue shift of its coming ends just as swiftly as its red shift of its going. I imagine no fare held with the confines. Windows are down, curly hair afoul, and scents of the interesting quality, prolific. If I took a split-second as eternity, I might be transferred to a saga of Egyptian proportions.  This is where I may cause to lay back into cushions, and enter the gloom of a darkly lit escapade infused with gurgling hookah vapor. Rancid bitterness lines my lips, only to collect like a stifling ribbon across the rear of my tongue. I am struck by an astringency, that peels away at the upper recesses of my mind. My attention is averted by two Japanese businessmen strolling by, speaking a phrase or two. The news must be mundane, for the exchange seems mediocre and miniscule. They disappear around a gray building that camouflages itself against an equally dismal sky. I wish I could go back. If only I could rip space-time open, like the soft underbelly of an armored demon, tear out its heart, and eviscerate its innards. Instead, of course...instead.

Tuesday, July 09, 2013

Imaginary Yellow Jacket Hastens Departure

A portly man in a lavender Oxford shirt with pants pulled up to the belly button squints against our Earth's yellow star. He stands unsure against the parking meter. Eyes shielded from the dying day's light by a wrinkled floppy hand, he shifts weight rhythmically, dancing away uncertainity. He disappears, then returns with a sportcoat half on, half off. The arm with the sleeve extends to grasp a small digital camera. With haphazard balance, he clicks a few pictures of the row of parallel parked cars. Then, as if stung by a persistent and engaged yellow jacket, he runs off, sauntering his steps around the corner, vanishing amidst hanging traffic lights, plastic autos, idling engines, and breezy urban maples.

Monday, April 29, 2013

To Acquire Meaning without Meaning

"You know what they said to me? You know? They said that I look like a raccoon snack. That's what they say to me!"

The woman that I let cut the line is told the above by a man of more than sufficient girth. He sits arms and legs splayed out in the front side-facing row. The woman bends her ear down when he was halfway through talking since perhaps what was said wasn't discerned correctly. She responds with a curious, "oh?" then swiftly makes her way to a seat, having acquired the meaning without meaning. The big man's monologue wasn't not quite finished. He smoothly (as much as he could be) transitions his attentions to those adjacent to his form, and begins to relate how much of a snack he is to that masked critter known for avid cleanliness and ability to wreak nocturnal havoc to trash cans ("rubbish bins" for those of you British vernacular types).
I finally end up severely aft. I begin to notice other crazies on board the bus. Notably, there is one I recognize as one that has caused two women to ride other routes; one through his rancid hostility and the other through his maniacal "charms"...