To not envy the lives of our children is a sobering thought indeed. I admit, I do indulge all too freely in this philosophy, perhaps. I know that my own generation is already better off than the next (contrary to established intuition), having tasted a morsel of the life before all this...they will know pain and ruin and hardship like no other. I feel as if their lives will be cut all too short. I can only be thankful that I have lived this amount of time so far.
There will be war. It has already begun, in fact. The stage is set for the justification of our impending and full participation. This taking part also has already started. We were there even before, to push a button here and flip a lever there, to then set it all into motion. At a preconceived time, we will be sucked in at such a horrific rate, that blood will eventually stain the walls of our homes. This too, has already commenced, initiated by our modern-day psychohistorians*. Little by little, bit by bit we are divided into givers and takers. We are polarized so powerfully thus, that the potential literally tingles in the gut akin to a flock of butterflies, ready to energize at any moment. Invaded, attacked and our world on fire; ourselves irrevocably weakened, we shall become the literal slaves we currently emulate in a figurative sense. First, to a dictator, then to the unfathomable, appalling, and abominable. None will escape this consequence. Its coming is a smooth glassy swell. It appears friendly and comforting, and beckons us into its warm embrace. It promises to protect, include, and take care, whether we like it or not. However, it shall grow to a monstrous height, carrying us all with it, while it crashes against the rocky shore of reality.
In ever-increasing disposition, I find my response to the daily stimuli inversely proportional to time. Less and less is held with a sense of importance or interest. Most of what I see is diversion from Truth. Images, memes, lame attempts at humor, stories of fiction, innocuous celebrity, hollow electronic gadgetry, treasonous politicking, hedging bets, incredulous lawsuits, asinine economic analyses, duplicitous derivatives, senseless sports drama, inundation of vocative ideologues, and ineffectual chatter ad nauseum: pixelated bits of our extinction.
What to do?
Pick a side, and pray.
And if I am opposite you, I will not hesitate.
Nor shall I expect any different from you.
*Isaac Asimov The Foundation Trilogy
Saturday, June 06, 2015
Sunday, May 31, 2015
All too often, with more and more frequency, its period of occurrence increases. The momentum has already reached its escape vector. Of course, I find myself going upstream. I'm beginning to think that perhaps I like it this way, but one never can tell the truth about themselves. It's almost as if we are all both Schrödinger's Cat and Schrödinger. We can only gaze at what we think we see, but our essence does something else entirely, right under our very noses.
Can't you feel it? It's a wave of a wave. A tsunami that will sweep us all away. I mean, it has only been reported more than a dozen times, and only then a dozen times more. So loud it is, it blanks out all hearing. Well, for those that have not picked a side anyway. -But that's no excuse, don't you think? By all accounts, I will be against you, you, and you, in all probability. I gather that you don't feel it. If you don't, you most likely won't, or ever will. It's never a question of can't. It's all a decision, all of it. You can beg some exterior distraction, but that again is a decision. You do not decide, ever, and there is nothing more hated than indecision. Indecision is cowardice, and cowardice is fear, and for which fear cannot be mastered through hesitation. So, it's out of the question.
There will be that moment in time that I am truly sorry, and it will be a single moment in the present-eternal. This too will pass along so that the next moment can begin. So goes conflict, so that another can take its place.
"Sorry no more," I'll say.
And you'll say nothing, because nothing isn't, nor might as well have never been.
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Beset by memories of yesterday, I might as well be blind to the present. Inundated by answers not answers, to simple questions. The exchange one-sided, and more a projection of the answerer than the "answeree."
The incredulity of it all, my own perceived notion, which lambastes my thoughts. The recollection of unalterated self-imposed handicap, with irony mixed in. For example, can someone claim they were "poor," when they, in the end acquired a masters degree and at least was able to attend high school, didn't sleep on dirt floors, or had more than one pair of underwear, or had more than one meal per day, or, or, or...?
All interrupted by smell. Instead of odor derived from glands, portrays itself as heavily doused cologne with a thread of sodium sulfide. The bus is like this. The hammer against introspection.
The "offender?" Male, pale green polo, jeans, carefully styled hair, stares insipidly down at his electronics; all the while erupting SBD's. [If you're unaware of the acronym, then think back to elementary/junior high. If still unaware, then I've already wasted too many words on this parenthetical.] He shifts over, creating a sort of makeshift sardine can arrangement. The comfort level increases to abundant levels. When I look ahead, I am witness to many empty seats. It's time to sigh, grit my teeth, and count to ten.
Friday, May 15, 2015
"Wow! That's a nice screen saver you have there," I said, pointing at his desktop monitor.
There was a photo of the latest Mars rover gathering samples on the brick red surface of the planet.
"Yeah, that's from my brother-in-law. I like space stuff."
"Did you hear about that ion propulsion where you could shorten the trip to Mars to forty days?"
"Why would you ever want to do that?" he asked in superior tones, adding, "-such a waste of resources..."
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Every morning is the same.
I approach the bus shelter, breathing in the moist air. There is a chill biting at the ends of my fingers. Grumpy Old Man (GOM) hobbles across the street in mock haste from the opposite direction. The canopy is how it usually is: trash strewn in all directions with the refuse container in the middle of it all. It's a picture. At first, that's all it is. Then it registers yet again, likened to a waterfall whose pour is mysteriously not heard until that proper moment. It is a portrait of replete irony. Perhaps I delve all too deeply into these things. They appear as simple implements during the path of life. However, I cannot help myself to think there is a certain asymmetrical symbolism to it; synonymous to the culture of what we've become.
"C'mon!" GOM yells at the oncoming bus. Its slow acceleration thorough the stoplight not to his liking. When the coach finally arrives, he shuffles over in front of the bus doors and peers inside through the reflective glass.
"Another different driver," comes the per diem declaration.
Every morning is exactly the same.
Friday, November 21, 2014
The light is dim. Yet, as always there's someone here in sunglasses. At this present time, I sense that the eyes behind them are observing me. My intuition is confirmed, since I am able to discern two dark orbs staring in my direction. I get the feeling that he thinks I don't know, or couldn't penetrate this "impenetrable" shield. Yet, the reality has won out. Then, the original question returns. If it is dim, why wear sunglasses. Is it like Bono? Bono, who claims eye issues. His reason may be legitimate, but this guy, I don't think so. I might as well accept that root cause will dwell in the realm of mystery and speculation.
My observation moves onto the now-present. The bus is now pulling into Westlake Station. The confines are filled to the brim.
The driver gets on the com and asks, "If folks could get down and get a little tighter!"
There is minimum resulting movement. A mere trickle works their way into the bus. Standing room only, body heat, steam on the windows, the smell of papers, the sound of ventilation fans with an accompaniment of electronic devices. Rain splatters against the blacktop against a gray backdrop. At least, this is what the window tells me. Then I am reminded of the micro-cut on my left cheek left by a jaggedly torn fingernail. It's jagged from the ill-use of a chef's knife, and torn from God knows what.
At least it's Friday.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
A long-haired dude with "Manson" eyes, an old bespeckled woman in a blood-red long coat, a man with frosted ponytail and a fedora, and finally an apprehensive yuppie sitting in the handicap seat: all are riders never before seen. Perhaps I am too much of a newbie myself, the gray coated lanky one folded behind the articulation. What is new anyway? If one is old, but they're suddenly in a different place, do they become new? It is would seem so, in this day and age, and most likely for all ages. This is a quirk of human nature, no doubt.
Image courtesy of www.physicsoftheuniverse.com
Thursday, November 13, 2014
A dark evening with a backdrop of pinpricks through walls is the scene that greets. I miss the sought-after route by mere steps. It might as well be the Grand Canyon now. I hop on another that requires a transfer later. In frustrating fashion, forward progress is delayed by coaches ahead. It is not apparent as to the why, only the what. Moving ahead then stopping almost immediately is what follows. A huge load enters, as if none of this route has come for eons and eons. Arabic seems to be the language of choice tonight, ladies and gentleman. Ahead of me, behind me, and to the side, it fills the innards. All others are quiet, for they read words on their devices of electronic means. Some are books, and others the news, no doubt about those happenings in the Middle East, which never ends it seems. Just yesterday it was said that the leader of ISIS called on all Muslims to wage war worldwide against "Jews, Crusaders, and the Devils."
"Erupt volcanoes of jihad," he says.
When one reads an instruction like this, aboard a bus, where Arabic is spoken almost exclusively by those who speak, that one cannot help but have thoughts of wonder. Thoughts of wonder which turn to the said instruction, and if in fact any of that sunk into these speakers' hearts. -And if indeed if those words did sink into their hearts, would those words perhaps manifest into obedient action? Many in this country would call such "thoughts of wonder" preposterous, paranoid, or even prejudiced. The establishment might even, with vindication, consider this particular thinker bigoted and racist. The thinker realizes this and buries these thoughts deep, and the guilt settles in, embued by the societal altar of political correctness.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Yes, there is the root of my demographic, a European mutt. For some reason, the Irish or German components decided to manifest themselves more than any of the others. I find it a curse mostly, the freckles and blue eyes for instance. They offer no resistance to the Sun's rays. Fifteen minutes, that's all it takes the burn the shit out of me. Then, there's the Sun's brightness, which the eyes seem to reflect extra light back into the retinas. This causes momentary blindness when looking directly at sun-illuminated white concrete. Afterwards, everytime I blink I see that square of concrete there, branded into the backside of my eyelids.
Then there's this demeanor that I possess. I'm not sure if it is a product of experience, or something innate. Like here I am on public transit, yet again. Yet again, at least ninety percent of the time, I see passengers look me in the eye and hustle away. They avoid my presence,, I know it, I sense it. I care not, one way or the other. I am simply stating an observation that's repeated itself many times over. I wonder as to the why of it. As someone that makes a living at observation, be it of the animate or inanimate, I feel that I have enough practice to validate this hypothesis.
For example, picture a car in your mind's eye. It is traveling in snowy and icy conditions. There are other cars oncoming. A traffic light up ahead goes from yellow to red. The car in question is a little too close to the intersection, so the driver must press firmly on the brakes. When he does this, the car begins to go into a spin, since there is a slight imbalance in the calipers, from one side to the other. The other cars, the ones oncoming swerve to avoid, dart around to miss that car.
It's just like that.
Friday, November 07, 2014
A man and a woman hobble slowly through the darkness. The man encumbered by a giant old fashioned lunch box, and the woman by a smoldering cigarette. When the bus arrives late, I feel compelled to let them on first. They both disappear somewhere aft as I take a row front of the articulation. I am seated behind two others. One, a lady with thinning hair atop, her pinkish scalp visible as the ferns from a recently logged forest hillside. The other is a man, head bent down over something, presumably electronic. A woman enters downstream dressed in an ankle length red raincoat and seats herself next to the latter.
"Hello Peter," she shouts to the man as she takes the seat next to him.
"Hi!" he says in equally atrocious volume.
They continue a conversation, sharp and loud. Another woman wearing glasses enters the scene, followed by a white-haired gentleman. They all know each other. I get the impression that the woman with glasses is the "glue" that holds this cliche together. She is the only one that speaks to the whole group, and it's the whole group that talks to her. She is the conduit, most of the time anyway.
I am again sat next to by the voracious eater. She glanced at me the same way again, made a beeline for my aisle seat, and proceeded to root through her bag for the Tupperware full of food (I have yet to figure out what it is).
The pace of eating is much more relaxed contrasted to a few days ago.
My thoughts are interrupted by the previously mentioned man with the sharp voice. The quality of which assaults like concussions from mortar rounds landing about the place like a rain of terror. The whole ride possesses this recurring theme. For instance I learned that a "he" dog was spayed, in harshly announced tones, making me mentally wince.
Next time the ear buds shall be inserted firmly to seal out the the prolific onslaught of absurdity.