Friday, August 26, 2016

Trained

I thought I caught a glimpse of her yesterday, but it is hard to say. So many things have happened in what one would deem, "many years," but then time is warped. Trains are the way to go these days. Seattle edges day by day into a snarled and inescapable metropolis, spreading outward even when there is no other place to go. So this is it now. Except of course, when there are landslides.
***

The breeze was constant, until I made my way downstairs into the stillness of the platform. Those waiting are always the same, with a few straggling odds and ends. The scents and smells of the temporary loiterers are strangely less repugnant (than the bus), although the surrounding could be considered opposing. As I am constantly reminded, "beauty is in the eye..." -yeah, you know how it goes. Even still, the conclusion then is that I do not possess it, at least in this particular case. My eyes reflect crumbling pillars of a graffiti facade. Those outer layers exhibit blue, black and green swirling worms depicting puffy typeface. Various refuse littered the tracks as large BNSF locomotives barreled through straining from the mile long weight that followed behind them.

I entered the last car on the right. It was already mostly full. I made my way up the stairs to the second level. The commuters were all spread out like peanut butter on toast. I feigned an intent at one chair directly across from her. She had placed a large shopping bag within the leg space of the rearward seat directly across from her. I am not one to ignore signals, no matter how subtle or insignificant they seem, so I smoothed out my hesitation and walked by in a typical professional way. One row down I sat in the first available seat that faced back toward her and her androgynous companion. I was startled a little at this particular development, honestly.

"So strange" I said, shaking my head.
Why such the lowered joust JB? You always are so belligerent.
"Well, I have been busy, and I am used to things."
You and your excuses. Busy. Like no one else. 
"Sarcasm was never your forte you know. You should keep at what you're good at, and nothing more, but perhaps less."
Oh! Who put a pin in your pillow JB? After so long too! I'd hate to come across you everyday.
"Exactly."
Is this what has got you in a tizzy? Listen. I have always been here.
"Sure."
You see my dear, you have become one of those "fringe elements," as 'they' say.
'They? -And who would that be?"
Don't you consult that little electronic device every half-minute? Ha!
"I try not to pay attention to idiots, but then, they are hard to avoid when you keep reminding me."
Isn't that how all of this started from the beginning?
"If you say so."
Let me ask you something. For you, it was always the harshness of things that helped. When things go splendidly, you forget about me. Yes? Admit it.
"Perhaps."
You know it's true. You are the anomaly, the opposite case to everyone else.
 "What do you mean by, 'everyone else'?"
What, you think you are the only one? Oh, don't look so defeated JB. It isn't like you didn't already know. After all, you do think of yourself as 'one who enjoys to point out hypocrisy,' so be careful. We all walk the fine line from time to time, and some more than others. I wonder about you though. You hardly tell me anything, anything at all. It's no wonder actually.
"Yeah, well-"
Yeah well, just look at what you're reading nowadays! The Provisionals? Really? 
"Of course! What choice do you think I have?"
I sure hope you're still around the next time JB. I am worried about you.
"Well, if I don't continue, then I sure as hell won't be, and that is the truth." 
Ah, well is well. <i>Such as it is JB. I am here at your choosing. But that deadness you feel, isn't what you think it is. </i>

I just raised my eyes for a mere glimpse, and then shuddered my gaze away. Her companion was starting to glare at me, and she turned away from me, looking down into her shopping bag. The time had changed, or the change skewed the time. The dreams had intertwined with reality and the other way around. It had been confounding and petulant. Next thing I know the tunnel had sloughed away that purchased a harsh blue sky, mountains on the horizon across the steely blue saltwater. Over those the fiery pink to red to purple clouds deepened. Closer and nearer they became, always following.

I reached into my bag and pulled out my book. As I read I am even more convinced of my current course. I looked back up to her seat, but she was gone. In her and her companion's place was a medium-build man with a beard and dark cropped hair reading the content of a computer tablet.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

The Cowardice of Academia

Pacifism is a paradoxical arrangement with an unrealistic ideal. For instance, if a pacifist's only option is to use violence to save another from violence, both action and inaction violates their ideal. As a result, I think the "pacifists" among us are actually insipid cowards; for it is easier to exist within esoteric smug ideals than it is to live within the cruel reality of life.

The Utopia of Misspent Tax

This morning I pass by the King County Administration Building, of which every square inch of its plaza is covered completely by a homeless encampment. As I pass, I am watched with intense and brooding glints from two unintelligible waifs on the street below. After a full minute, as I wait at the crosswalk, they decide that perhaps other potentials are more deserving of their interest. A few blocks down at the corner of 3rd and James, a junkie pisses on a parking meter in broad daylight.

All this, in a misty cloud of doubage...

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

To Not Envy Your Children

I find it difficult to focus on those things I used to. Those nonsensical, whimsical things that entrap the mind and petrify the will. I was just about to write a little silly vignette you see, that may or may not have brought a smile to your face. Tragically, I see these things as an opportunity cost of the utmost: reading fiction, watching the television, writing poems, playing music, "going out," worrying about pages of glossy pictorials at the end of the grocery line...seriously, the whole world is on fire! There's no time for that. The world now, as I can finally see, does not allow the free indulgence in such things. The seriousness of what is and isn't happening in Europe. The Middle East, China, North Korea, Africa, Iran, and most importantly, within the US is a total reckless catastrophe. Never are we citizens more divided and irresolute to compromise. In all my life I would never think to myself to actually admire the <s>Soviet</s> Russian leader over my own, especially being one born into the Cold War. Never would I have believed that leftist principles that so many fought and lost/messed up their lives against would seem "mainstream." Never would I have thought that living in a city to be the worst possible idea, EVER. Never did I ever realize how incredibly fragile every action and interaction between each person, group, society, and country is.
Perhaps I'm just naïve, you tell me. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I do not envy my children.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Little Big Miss

Hesitation is the rule of law for the weak minded. When it happens, near-accidents result, if not full-on ones. -And when it makes itself known, it only is capable of illustrating the lack of something, and never the antonym of this said concept. For, I did follow the short fat one into the bus this morning. She is one of those that must come to a full and complete stop while scanning the bus pass at the reader for payment. Then, because I am the opposite, had ended up tailgating her down the aisle. 
"Why would you do that JB?" you might ask.
Well, if you know me, you know that I am tall, and that most of my height originates from the legs. So, when the legs are responsible for above-average height, of course the gait's stride is much faster than your average fellow's. It's how I was made, the way I grew, predisposed by my genes and possibly childhood diet without a doubt. 
When walking in enclosed and crowded spaces, I must exert a directed mental a effort to shorten the distance between steps so as not to run into all the slow walkers out there, which I sense is great and powerful number. Said in another way, one could say that on the normal probability distribution for slow walkers, I am most likely in the bottom fifth percentile. The exact inverse is also true. 
Returning to the present state of affairs (having illustrated my condition to satisfactory comprehension), we have myself tailgating little-big Miss. -Who, at the very last moment, after veering right, comes to a halt, hovers for half a second, then swerves to the left to finally choose her seat. Seems like a pretty normal thing, right? 
Ridiculous.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

blurred features across the curved surface of space

To lose interest like those raggedy remnants that flail in the wind, sloughed off under the countless treads upon the infernal drag of this place. Once seeming important appears now as seagull guano smeared across ocean invading jetties, fading as long-gone and blurred features across the curved surface of space. The void that they filled has now perished. A violent carving and chipping away at the soul renders it to its essence:

Attending movies and concerts, watching television shows, musing personal history, indulging once admired cousins, aunts or uncles, the quest to write that perfect story, trends, the endless pursuit for the latest electronics, gaming, liberal politics, jamming on the guitar, celebrity, reading fiction, parties, bands, cd's, cars, videos, sports...

These and more are gone. Lost into the annals of Unimportant Things. Their memories are but mere flirtations and infatuations of the miniscule. Losing them does not instill grief, sadness, joy, or hate. Where they existed, there is nothing. Where they were, they are no longer.

The world changes, grows more hostile, apathetic, corrupted, distracted and inane. Time passes and heralds ominous futures. Thoughts and efforts converge and focus anew.

Survival.

Saturday, June 06, 2015

A Flock of Butterflies

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



Sunday, May 31, 2015

Insomnia Magna

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

The Incredulity of It All

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

Where the Wind Blows Gnats in the Face

"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

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.