Election time to wave
The colors and to taste the
Freedom of those amber waves
That blanket the veins of the steadfast decay of
Mighty giants with the blackest of pitch just
Like the blue of Dolly's Smokey Mountains
While there is black to usher change and
A sister too
And masses praise the difference
That no change can bring.
A veneer of fresh to cover the
Melted pot decay.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Same old song and dance
"...and leaves delight in transience."
-Basil Bunting
I sit here looking at the computer screen in disbelief. It's not a particularly engaging image, but it is spurred from an important event. An event, sad to admit, I just learned of through the omnipresence of Facebook. It came innocuously packaged in a note titled with some romantical drivel, but I had just enough knowledge to get a feel for the foreboding that was to come.
Now, this story does not involve me, well, not directly, but it does effect two of my closest friends, call them Steve and Paul for the sake of anonymity. Paul, a good two years younger than myself, fell into success running movie theaters. He makes a good deal of money, and not just by college drop-out standards, but it requires him to relocate across state borders to mystic lands like Mississippi and Texas. Those places are weird, man. Seriously. We once went to one of his old places of residence on a whim during one of his numerous trips back home. Driving around the entertaining city of Little Rock, Arkansas with a guy who can't get into any of the bars, despite his impressive facial hair, makes one long for something, anything, to do.
"Hey, we could drive to Memphis!"
Ha, ha, what a delightfully oddball notion. I had work the next day at noon and he had to drive back to Texas. More driving and being bored it was.
"Its only like, three hours. And I bet I could make it faster."
Hmmm........ Memphis could be fun. It was only around eight thirty-ish. Get there around eleven, head home around one, sleep and get to work. That could work.
As we crossed the Mississippi we again realized that the age factor would probably bar (is that a pun?) us from all the really fun activities. Luckily, there is always a Plan B.
"Tupelo is only another hour or so. I can call some of the people that I used to manage down there and you can finally get to see my old theater." When you become a manager somewhere it is forever 'yours.' I know this first hand. I may despise my job, but I still feel the store is mine. As in, "Those two just walked out of my store with those DVDs," or"Those corporate idiots are killing my store."
Cut a few hours ahead and I'm sitting at an IHOP table at two a.m. and sharing an appetizer sampler with two other people I had meet just an hour earlier. And no one so much as batted an eyelash. See? I told you they were weird. Or maybe thats just theater workers in general...
Anyway, they were an ecclectic crew of people that my friend couldn't get to know very well simply because they worked under him. This little epiphany occured to me as I was soaking in the magnificence of the rising sun while taking a leak in the middle of a cornfield somewhere in North-eastern Arkansas. It was at that moment I truly understood what kind of solitary life Paul had carved out for himself. Enter my other good friend Steve.
Steve, like myself, is a late college starter with a tendency to try and understand the complex and screwed up world around us by writing about it. He's pretty good, too. Even had a potential interview with a member of the editorial staff of the L.A. Times. This opportunity was through the college in Kansas that he had been attending for the past two years. A community college in Kansas. There are, from what I hear, two main types of guys at community colleges in Kansas. Cowboys and Mexicans. And all the girls there are interested in two things. Cowboys and Mexicans. Steve is neither a cowboy, nor has he any Hispanic descent. This makes for a slightly lonely time for Steve as well. This fact may have directly contributed to his leaving/being kicked out of that community college and not ever getting that interview. After being misguided on how many credit hours and in what subjects he should take to graduate in the standard two years, Steve found himself looking at another year with an alcohol and drug abusing roommate. Not that Steve was a saint, mind you, but he had mellowed appreciatively over the last few years. I think that so many people we knew were getting married and popping out kids made him restock his life. It sure made me. So, he quietly decided to take what credits he could and leave Kansas and transfer them to a four year, exactly what he had been planning, just with a full Associates degree instead of a long string of credits. However unfortunate the circumstances, and no matter how tired you are at the thought of living for another year with someone, every goodbye deserves companionship and drinking. And so it commenced. On his last official night in the dorms Steve got remarkably drunk. And as a result made several trips to the group restroom shared by all the dwellers of the dorms second floor. Being a college campus there was the requisite graffiti covering the walls. Like I said, Steve is a writer. Such abuse of the written word couldn't be tolerated. Something had to be done.
Enter a drunk poet with a marker.
Steve spent the better part of the night scribbling furiously onto the bathroom walls and creating fairly decent poetry. Even, and he was particularly proud of this one, writing a poem backwards near the mirrors so that looking at you reflection you'd see it the correct way.
"I was amazed! You wouldn't think that a drunk Steve could have pulled that off without fucking it up."
A few days later and Steve gets a phone call to come to Dean Something-or-other's office. Figuring its last minute leaving college stuff he isn't too worried. Turns out, however, that the faculty is enraged at his poetic scribblings and wants to know who did it. And, being the only student leaving (and since someone was a squealer) Steve was at the top of the suspect list. Really, he was the list. And they were furious. There was talk of everyone's grades being held until the culprit came forward, a forensic specialist being called in, and legal action being taken. I shit you not. I mean, how dare someone write poetry in the bathroom? The bathroom of all places! That place is reserved for bodily functions and anti-semitic scratchings only. And maybe some gay bashing. But poetry, especially in washable red ink, was unwelcome.
"Can you believe it!? I was the nicest vandal ever! The ink washes right off! They told me that they are going to have to hire a painter to come in and paint over it, and that I had to foot the bill. I told them that I would come in and clean it off, and, get this, she told me that that would work, except that after I came forward I was banned from the dorms! And she was the one who banned me. I think they just want me to pay for the whole bathroom being painted so they don't have to."
There was subsequent talk of a late night incursion to said dorms for a little late night guerrilla cleaning. I can't say if that ever happened, but I don't think that any money ever changed hands between Steve and that little community college.
To be continued.....
-Basil Bunting
I sit here looking at the computer screen in disbelief. It's not a particularly engaging image, but it is spurred from an important event. An event, sad to admit, I just learned of through the omnipresence of Facebook. It came innocuously packaged in a note titled with some romantical drivel, but I had just enough knowledge to get a feel for the foreboding that was to come.
Now, this story does not involve me, well, not directly, but it does effect two of my closest friends, call them Steve and Paul for the sake of anonymity. Paul, a good two years younger than myself, fell into success running movie theaters. He makes a good deal of money, and not just by college drop-out standards, but it requires him to relocate across state borders to mystic lands like Mississippi and Texas. Those places are weird, man. Seriously. We once went to one of his old places of residence on a whim during one of his numerous trips back home. Driving around the entertaining city of Little Rock, Arkansas with a guy who can't get into any of the bars, despite his impressive facial hair, makes one long for something, anything, to do.
"Hey, we could drive to Memphis!"
Ha, ha, what a delightfully oddball notion. I had work the next day at noon and he had to drive back to Texas. More driving and being bored it was.
"Its only like, three hours. And I bet I could make it faster."
Hmmm........ Memphis could be fun. It was only around eight thirty-ish. Get there around eleven, head home around one, sleep and get to work. That could work.
As we crossed the Mississippi we again realized that the age factor would probably bar (is that a pun?) us from all the really fun activities. Luckily, there is always a Plan B.
"Tupelo is only another hour or so. I can call some of the people that I used to manage down there and you can finally get to see my old theater." When you become a manager somewhere it is forever 'yours.' I know this first hand. I may despise my job, but I still feel the store is mine. As in, "Those two just walked out of my store with those DVDs," or"Those corporate idiots are killing my store."
Cut a few hours ahead and I'm sitting at an IHOP table at two a.m. and sharing an appetizer sampler with two other people I had meet just an hour earlier. And no one so much as batted an eyelash. See? I told you they were weird. Or maybe thats just theater workers in general...
Anyway, they were an ecclectic crew of people that my friend couldn't get to know very well simply because they worked under him. This little epiphany occured to me as I was soaking in the magnificence of the rising sun while taking a leak in the middle of a cornfield somewhere in North-eastern Arkansas. It was at that moment I truly understood what kind of solitary life Paul had carved out for himself. Enter my other good friend Steve.
Steve, like myself, is a late college starter with a tendency to try and understand the complex and screwed up world around us by writing about it. He's pretty good, too. Even had a potential interview with a member of the editorial staff of the L.A. Times. This opportunity was through the college in Kansas that he had been attending for the past two years. A community college in Kansas. There are, from what I hear, two main types of guys at community colleges in Kansas. Cowboys and Mexicans. And all the girls there are interested in two things. Cowboys and Mexicans. Steve is neither a cowboy, nor has he any Hispanic descent. This makes for a slightly lonely time for Steve as well. This fact may have directly contributed to his leaving/being kicked out of that community college and not ever getting that interview. After being misguided on how many credit hours and in what subjects he should take to graduate in the standard two years, Steve found himself looking at another year with an alcohol and drug abusing roommate. Not that Steve was a saint, mind you, but he had mellowed appreciatively over the last few years. I think that so many people we knew were getting married and popping out kids made him restock his life. It sure made me. So, he quietly decided to take what credits he could and leave Kansas and transfer them to a four year, exactly what he had been planning, just with a full Associates degree instead of a long string of credits. However unfortunate the circumstances, and no matter how tired you are at the thought of living for another year with someone, every goodbye deserves companionship and drinking. And so it commenced. On his last official night in the dorms Steve got remarkably drunk. And as a result made several trips to the group restroom shared by all the dwellers of the dorms second floor. Being a college campus there was the requisite graffiti covering the walls. Like I said, Steve is a writer. Such abuse of the written word couldn't be tolerated. Something had to be done.
Enter a drunk poet with a marker.
Steve spent the better part of the night scribbling furiously onto the bathroom walls and creating fairly decent poetry. Even, and he was particularly proud of this one, writing a poem backwards near the mirrors so that looking at you reflection you'd see it the correct way.
"I was amazed! You wouldn't think that a drunk Steve could have pulled that off without fucking it up."
A few days later and Steve gets a phone call to come to Dean Something-or-other's office. Figuring its last minute leaving college stuff he isn't too worried. Turns out, however, that the faculty is enraged at his poetic scribblings and wants to know who did it. And, being the only student leaving (and since someone was a squealer) Steve was at the top of the suspect list. Really, he was the list. And they were furious. There was talk of everyone's grades being held until the culprit came forward, a forensic specialist being called in, and legal action being taken. I shit you not. I mean, how dare someone write poetry in the bathroom? The bathroom of all places! That place is reserved for bodily functions and anti-semitic scratchings only. And maybe some gay bashing. But poetry, especially in washable red ink, was unwelcome.
"Can you believe it!? I was the nicest vandal ever! The ink washes right off! They told me that they are going to have to hire a painter to come in and paint over it, and that I had to foot the bill. I told them that I would come in and clean it off, and, get this, she told me that that would work, except that after I came forward I was banned from the dorms! And she was the one who banned me. I think they just want me to pay for the whole bathroom being painted so they don't have to."
There was subsequent talk of a late night incursion to said dorms for a little late night guerrilla cleaning. I can't say if that ever happened, but I don't think that any money ever changed hands between Steve and that little community college.
To be continued.....
Monday, March 3, 2008
Collage
Under a Red velvet sky,
In the back of the room,
They come to me in Torrents and floods.
Drinking from the nectarous Nepenthe
For far too long has clouded not
My judgment wholly.
Words from kindest friends, words
Of pain and suspicions and
True notions free from
Me
The fantastic fantasy
Of dreamt-up lies.
Under the light of a plaster
Moon you shine in
Technicolor brightness and sincerity
Of your true self.
Far more mortal I find
You than my fancies had me believe,
And prone still to the things
That separate ethereal
Quite magnitudes.
Free from burdens past I forge on this day to
The prosaic future of
Happiness.
In the back of the room,
They come to me in Torrents and floods.
Drinking from the nectarous Nepenthe
For far too long has clouded not
My judgment wholly.
Words from kindest friends, words
Of pain and suspicions and
True notions free from
Me
The fantastic fantasy
Of dreamt-up lies.
Under the light of a plaster
Moon you shine in
Technicolor brightness and sincerity
Of your true self.
Far more mortal I find
You than my fancies had me believe,
And prone still to the things
That separate ethereal
Quite magnitudes.
Free from burdens past I forge on this day to
The prosaic future of
Happiness.
Monday, February 18, 2008
blah
To live and to love is to hurt. We live in a world built on change. And living in this world that plunges ever forward into the future you have to realize that the world you live in at this moment is not the world you will wake up in tomorrow. It's not the same river.
We all know this deep down. It's what makes us what we are. The seconds ticking away are palpable. For some of us that is just too much. They grab and pull at every moment like they can make it last a little longer with concerted effort. You see them get hysterical because the drive through line is too long, their pen has run out of ink, or because it decided to rain today. They try to the best of their ability to make all moments the same. In this they can make their world seem more safe.
We all know this deep down. It's what makes us what we are. The seconds ticking away are palpable. For some of us that is just too much. They grab and pull at every moment like they can make it last a little longer with concerted effort. You see them get hysterical because the drive through line is too long, their pen has run out of ink, or because it decided to rain today. They try to the best of their ability to make all moments the same. In this they can make their world seem more safe.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Act 1, Scene 1
A darkened stage. On the edge sits a man (Jack) in a generic black suit drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette. From SR enters another man (John) also clad in a generic black suit and carrying a beer.
John: And so here sits the wasted brilliance of American youth, shaving the dog-minutes off of his life one mellow drag at a time.
Jack:(turning to face John) Johnathan! (gets up and hugs the other) I had no idea that you had made it down. I didn't see you during the service.
John: Well, there were quit a few people there. (they sit) Plus I was more than a little late. Seemed unpolite to push my way up the front of the crowd.
Jack: I don't think he missed you.(holds out cig. pack)
John: Thanks. (takes and lights) I didn't see Mary in there anywhere.
Jack: (Deadpan)No. No you didn't. (beat) It's hard to believe he's gone. I mean, I knew and all... it... it just seemed so fake.
John: What'd you think? Some T.V. style doctor was going to pop in one day and say, "It really is a miraculous recovery. Never seen anything like it." That stuff doesn't happen in the real world.
Jack: Yeah, well...
John: It's over now, kid.(arm around Jack. Jack seems uncomfortable) Its over and we can put the whole of it behind us.
Jack: (beat) Except for the book.
John: (removes arm, beat) Except for the book.
Lights fade to black
John: And so here sits the wasted brilliance of American youth, shaving the dog-minutes off of his life one mellow drag at a time.
Jack:(turning to face John) Johnathan! (gets up and hugs the other) I had no idea that you had made it down. I didn't see you during the service.
John: Well, there were quit a few people there. (they sit) Plus I was more than a little late. Seemed unpolite to push my way up the front of the crowd.
Jack: I don't think he missed you.(holds out cig. pack)
John: Thanks. (takes and lights) I didn't see Mary in there anywhere.
Jack: (Deadpan)No. No you didn't. (beat) It's hard to believe he's gone. I mean, I knew and all... it... it just seemed so fake.
John: What'd you think? Some T.V. style doctor was going to pop in one day and say, "It really is a miraculous recovery. Never seen anything like it." That stuff doesn't happen in the real world.
Jack: Yeah, well...
John: It's over now, kid.(arm around Jack. Jack seems uncomfortable) Its over and we can put the whole of it behind us.
Jack: (beat) Except for the book.
John: (removes arm, beat) Except for the book.
Lights fade to black
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Morning Commute
Life is full of fun little twist and turns. The fact that I am currently sitting next to one of the few people in the world that I can't stand is one of them. And I thought getting the early train was a good thing. My reasons for loathing this person like I do are my own. I could go into a deep and profound expulsion of explanation, but it is far easier to say that it involves a girl. Straight and to the point. So far he hasn't noticed me. Perhaps he will continue reading his paper and I will stay here in my book. That is extremely hopeful, however, given the distance into the city. But maybe, just maybe, this situation is like the enlightening lecture I was given about snakes and other undesirable creatures when I first moved out into the rural area I now inhabit. Maybe he is just as uneasy about talking to me as I am about talking to him.
I've sat here, three feet from a whole world of awkwardness that I wouldn't wish, funny I should mention it, on my worst enemy, since I boarded. That may be a bit harsh. It isn't that I have anything against the man in general, just what he represents. He is my replacement. Everything that I should have been but wasn't. He walked in and accomplished in a few short months what I couldn't get done in three years. But I said I wasn't going to go into that.
Damn. Fifteen minutes into an hour long ride and it feels like I should have already been there and back half a dozen times. I think Einstein was on to something with relativity. God, I think he just glanced over. Maybe talking with him won't be that bad. Hell, we may even have some things in common. Other than a very similar taste in women. But then he might mention her. That is a discussion that I have had with enough people to last a lifetime. What would be worse is if he presumed to tell me how she was doing. It is a simple and kind gesture, and God help him, he is a simple and kind man, but I have spent this past year trying to get beyond that old life. To hear the words, "She is doing well," and get a synopsis of her goings on might make me do irrational things. Just thinking about it has me envisioning my hands around his throat. I can feel the delicate pressure I would use, just enough to close that ever-important airway. It would be artful, even, not the mad-dog killer style. Killing another human being should be something sacred. Being the sane individual that I am, however, such things only exist as fantastic flashes of mental imagery. Or maybe denying the primal urges of my animalistic side make me less sane. A debate for another time perhaps.
Another half hour and I can forget all about this unpleasantness and get on with my new life. The woman's baby across from my nemesis and me appears to have colic, and it doesn't seem to be very pleased with the fact. It is letting everyone else on the train know as well. The mother seems to be very sleep deprived. No rings on her fingers. Five to one says this single mom is off to an early appointment to beg a doctor for some sort of relief, medicine for the kid or a little something for herself. There are a few business men and women off to the daily duties of this world. A few day trippers are there as well, off to some sort of important business in the big city. How long have they been on this train, sitting in those same seats, all looking very uncomfortable at the prospect of facing the hustle and bustle of their final destination. Where did they all come from? Just how far into the fields does this express go? Maybe one day I'll ride it to the end of the rails, just to see. I wonder at the amazing circumstances that bring us all together in this one trip. I'm sure the business people are here on most of the days that I am, I just never see them due to the late train that I usually catch. Just as sure as I am about that, I'm certain many of these people make this trip less than once a month, if that much. How amazing it would be to get into the microcosm of their daily lives.
Just before I begin taking a survey of all the people in my general area, I realize that I haven't the foggiest idea about why the man to my left is here. By all accounts there is absolutely no reason for him to be this far out. Last I heard he and my old flame lived in a cozy little apartment right downtown. My mind starts racing. I know who he is, I knew him before all the unfortunate business went down, and the person who takes your place is not a face you forget easily. I caution a glance in at him at what seems like a safe moment. And he is who I was sure he was. So now the questions start. Some sort of tragedy? Family in the country? Some sort of vacation? And all of the possible explanations for leaving one's normal surroundings bring up the one important question: Why is he alone?
For the first time in the fifty minutes I have been sitting next to this man I look at him, actually look. And what I see is akin to what I saw in the mirror a year ago. Frankly, he looks like shit. He is unshaven, his clothes unpressed, his hair uncombed, and fitting every stereotype of a man going through hard times, he has missed a button hole. All in all this poetic vision of a man in shambles might be comical, had I not met the subject before. Like I said, he was a sweet guy, one who I'm sure hasn't done anything to deserve whatever is tormenting him.
Whatever surrounds the two of us, it can't be held over the fact that he looks like he is absolutely alone in the world. And he is one of the few people on the earth who shouldn't be in that situation.
Five minutes to anonymity, and I turn and face him. I guess we all have to break the old routines sometime
I've sat here, three feet from a whole world of awkwardness that I wouldn't wish, funny I should mention it, on my worst enemy, since I boarded. That may be a bit harsh. It isn't that I have anything against the man in general, just what he represents. He is my replacement. Everything that I should have been but wasn't. He walked in and accomplished in a few short months what I couldn't get done in three years. But I said I wasn't going to go into that.
Damn. Fifteen minutes into an hour long ride and it feels like I should have already been there and back half a dozen times. I think Einstein was on to something with relativity. God, I think he just glanced over. Maybe talking with him won't be that bad. Hell, we may even have some things in common. Other than a very similar taste in women. But then he might mention her. That is a discussion that I have had with enough people to last a lifetime. What would be worse is if he presumed to tell me how she was doing. It is a simple and kind gesture, and God help him, he is a simple and kind man, but I have spent this past year trying to get beyond that old life. To hear the words, "She is doing well," and get a synopsis of her goings on might make me do irrational things. Just thinking about it has me envisioning my hands around his throat. I can feel the delicate pressure I would use, just enough to close that ever-important airway. It would be artful, even, not the mad-dog killer style. Killing another human being should be something sacred. Being the sane individual that I am, however, such things only exist as fantastic flashes of mental imagery. Or maybe denying the primal urges of my animalistic side make me less sane. A debate for another time perhaps.
Another half hour and I can forget all about this unpleasantness and get on with my new life. The woman's baby across from my nemesis and me appears to have colic, and it doesn't seem to be very pleased with the fact. It is letting everyone else on the train know as well. The mother seems to be very sleep deprived. No rings on her fingers. Five to one says this single mom is off to an early appointment to beg a doctor for some sort of relief, medicine for the kid or a little something for herself. There are a few business men and women off to the daily duties of this world. A few day trippers are there as well, off to some sort of important business in the big city. How long have they been on this train, sitting in those same seats, all looking very uncomfortable at the prospect of facing the hustle and bustle of their final destination. Where did they all come from? Just how far into the fields does this express go? Maybe one day I'll ride it to the end of the rails, just to see. I wonder at the amazing circumstances that bring us all together in this one trip. I'm sure the business people are here on most of the days that I am, I just never see them due to the late train that I usually catch. Just as sure as I am about that, I'm certain many of these people make this trip less than once a month, if that much. How amazing it would be to get into the microcosm of their daily lives.
Just before I begin taking a survey of all the people in my general area, I realize that I haven't the foggiest idea about why the man to my left is here. By all accounts there is absolutely no reason for him to be this far out. Last I heard he and my old flame lived in a cozy little apartment right downtown. My mind starts racing. I know who he is, I knew him before all the unfortunate business went down, and the person who takes your place is not a face you forget easily. I caution a glance in at him at what seems like a safe moment. And he is who I was sure he was. So now the questions start. Some sort of tragedy? Family in the country? Some sort of vacation? And all of the possible explanations for leaving one's normal surroundings bring up the one important question: Why is he alone?
For the first time in the fifty minutes I have been sitting next to this man I look at him, actually look. And what I see is akin to what I saw in the mirror a year ago. Frankly, he looks like shit. He is unshaven, his clothes unpressed, his hair uncombed, and fitting every stereotype of a man going through hard times, he has missed a button hole. All in all this poetic vision of a man in shambles might be comical, had I not met the subject before. Like I said, he was a sweet guy, one who I'm sure hasn't done anything to deserve whatever is tormenting him.
Whatever surrounds the two of us, it can't be held over the fact that he looks like he is absolutely alone in the world. And he is one of the few people on the earth who shouldn't be in that situation.
Five minutes to anonymity, and I turn and face him. I guess we all have to break the old routines sometime
Saturday, February 9, 2008
My name is Johnathan Blackburn, I'm twenty-three years old, and I just had an epiphany....
The club is packed.
Wall to wall bodies crash and sway together in time with the sickening beat that blazes from every corner of the room. He can feel the heat from the half naked dancers around him building and building. The smells of fifty different designer perfumes clash together to form an amalgamation of spice and sweet that uniquely identifies this particular region of the good old U S of A. A girl, drunk to the point it's a miracle she can stand, rubs against him as he fights his way through the crowd. The feel of her soft, sweaty flesh mixed with the stiffness of her sequined blouse leave haunting traces on his skin.
One of those, "What the hell am I doing?" sort of moments that come along and make you truly look at where you are....
Out on the street the cool night air is an amazing respite from the pulsating air and overpowering pheromones inside. Against the pounding club wall he leans and lights up. He watches the other people walking around in the neon and arc sodium wash of the street. More sequin shirts walk by in a gaggle, laughing and smoking, looking red and blue and deathly yellow as they pass by different clubs and bars. The police and bouncers all have a collective boredness about them. One of the cops yawns and pulls out his cell to check the time.
He follows his smoke up into the night sky and looks on past the city lights for a moment.
And as dumb as it seems, that turning point was when I looked at the stars and saw Orion's Belt...
Suddenly he tosses his half finished cigarette out into the street. The feel of smoke snaking its way down his throat was starting to make him ill. The wristband on his wrist felt itchy and uncomfortable. He takes it off and lets it flutter down into the gutter.
But, that was the only constellation that I knew. For the life of me I couldn't pick out even the big dipper.That sort of stuff used to be common knowledge, right?
The night starts to chill him, so he buries his hands in his pockets and makes his way to his car. Down the alleyway he crunches through a multitude of broken bottles. There is a beggar sifting through the trash behind some industrial building. In the stairs of the parking deck there is a drunk taking a piss.
It just sort of reminded me that people used to tell stories. They used to look up at the sky and wonder. They used to know each other.
In that moment I would have given anything in the world just to know the stars. To know the stories. To know that feeling...
He gets to his car, that safe, familiar bit of home. The radio comes on to his presets. He feels the cold grip of his steering wheel. Soon, he's on the road and headed home.
I just want to know what it is to truly know and need someone else.
The club is packed.
Wall to wall bodies crash and sway together in time with the sickening beat that blazes from every corner of the room. He can feel the heat from the half naked dancers around him building and building. The smells of fifty different designer perfumes clash together to form an amalgamation of spice and sweet that uniquely identifies this particular region of the good old U S of A. A girl, drunk to the point it's a miracle she can stand, rubs against him as he fights his way through the crowd. The feel of her soft, sweaty flesh mixed with the stiffness of her sequined blouse leave haunting traces on his skin.
One of those, "What the hell am I doing?" sort of moments that come along and make you truly look at where you are....
Out on the street the cool night air is an amazing respite from the pulsating air and overpowering pheromones inside. Against the pounding club wall he leans and lights up. He watches the other people walking around in the neon and arc sodium wash of the street. More sequin shirts walk by in a gaggle, laughing and smoking, looking red and blue and deathly yellow as they pass by different clubs and bars. The police and bouncers all have a collective boredness about them. One of the cops yawns and pulls out his cell to check the time.
He follows his smoke up into the night sky and looks on past the city lights for a moment.
And as dumb as it seems, that turning point was when I looked at the stars and saw Orion's Belt...
Suddenly he tosses his half finished cigarette out into the street. The feel of smoke snaking its way down his throat was starting to make him ill. The wristband on his wrist felt itchy and uncomfortable. He takes it off and lets it flutter down into the gutter.
But, that was the only constellation that I knew. For the life of me I couldn't pick out even the big dipper.That sort of stuff used to be common knowledge, right?
The night starts to chill him, so he buries his hands in his pockets and makes his way to his car. Down the alleyway he crunches through a multitude of broken bottles. There is a beggar sifting through the trash behind some industrial building. In the stairs of the parking deck there is a drunk taking a piss.
It just sort of reminded me that people used to tell stories. They used to look up at the sky and wonder. They used to know each other.
In that moment I would have given anything in the world just to know the stars. To know the stories. To know that feeling...
He gets to his car, that safe, familiar bit of home. The radio comes on to his presets. He feels the cold grip of his steering wheel. Soon, he's on the road and headed home.
I just want to know what it is to truly know and need someone else.
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