I sit here in this bar, a roadside edifice that welcomes the great unwashed and others. People at the bar are in the parenthesis of their own space…speaking into handheld instruments connecting to the ether. Their eyes dart ever so often to those around and then back to the static personification of the self packaged in a glass placed before them. The hand absented mindedly reaches for the fix…the lips suck in the nectar of decadence…and then they begin moving to the rhythm of the ether. Life for them is a reality…a disconnected reality.
Nothing is what it seems and what it seems is nothing.
He walks away…for he is connected to a world far removed from the apparent reality he witnesses.
You twist, you turn, put your head under the pillow, shove it out of the window and yet that thing in the deep recesses of your mind remains embedded for a life time – a beautiful memory which can never be relived. First day, first show and that’s it. No second chance. The memory is framed with hope. It is all that remains of the day, a moment forever in eternity.
My mama said not to look back in pain, anger or joy. Never to look back. To look forward. To walk towards the ever shifting horizon. To let it be. Like the friends and lovers who have come and gone leaving residues of emotions like scattered crumbs of a baguette on a clean white table cloth, forming a symmetry of forgotten dreams.
The rainbow of thoughts floats through space nurtured by wishes. My head turns to the cerulean sky as the images dissolve into shadows of the night. I stand by the roadside watching the stars.
My mama said that a beautiful memory could never be relived.
But she never told me that I would have to carry it alone.
“I am a dweller on the thresholdAnd I’m waiting at the doorAnd I’m standing in the darknessI don’t want to wait no more”
– Van Morrison, Dweller on the threshold
He returned, the boy who refused to grow up, to a strange land. All that he knew had been shifted into the past and in its place something new, throbbing, kicking and shouting confronted his senses. Nothing appeared familiar except the lies, deceit and double dealing. Even the air smelt of unfamiliarity. But the animals recognized him, the prodigal with a penchant for the absurd. And they always greeted him like an old friend who could be depended upon for a hand out, a leftover from a meal neatly wrapped in newspaper.
And as reality kicked in he sat down to write a long delayed missive to his son.
My dearest son,
You are the fruit of my loins and nothing can change this. Often I remember the warm little body wrapped in a clean white cloth as I held you close to me. Your eyes were like stars twinkling on a moonless night. You smelt of curdled milk and your tiny hand reached out to touch my moustache. You smiled when you saw my face for the first time as if we had met before in another time, another place… The sound of you sobbing and announcing, “papa loves me” when I smacked you for being rude to your mother…you were all of six then… The battle of school was a saga that always ended in the loss of your hankychip (handkerchief). And those dreaded words that were uttered in a tiny voice in cinema halls, weddings and restaurants, “Papa potty”…keep returning when the link between sanity and reality is ruptured by daydreaming.
I never told you why I left nor have we spoken about this. The silence was deafening and in a way consoling for it covered everything in a thin film of numbness. You know the day I had packed my bags and was leaving your mother I saw your expression…it was then that I realized I had forgotten one thing, to pack a bag for you too. Probably you have never forgiven me for this, I do not know.
I have heard many things about you from your aunts and uncles. They speak with great love and affection for you. They say you are a good and gentle boy. I am delighted to hear this. Will you become a flying instructor like my father, your granddad? And will you too be like me? I hope not. My greatest wish is to see you living close to Nature because you love animals, a quiet life and of course supporting your favourite football team, Man U with lots of tequila and vodka! Yes, I know I get all the news from your cousin in London!
When you telephoned me late last night to tell me about the goings on in your life and in particular your graduation from college and your first job, I felt relieved for I had assumed you had overlooked my existence. Maybe the time is coming when we will talk, man to man, about all things blight and beautiful…things of the past that need to be put to rest. And perhaps one day I will be holding your child in my arms and reliving the beautiful memories of you as a baby.
But for now I am happy and content that you reached out to me. I love you dearly my son.
I shall leave you now with this quote from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran.
“Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”
– Khalil Gibran, The Prophet
He has been travelling for nearly seven years now ruminating on and capturing the word and the embedded subtle nuances of a life, a life free of credit cards, bank accounts and the odd financial rigmarole…a comforting disconnection from the ebb and flow of the daily grind.
Everything seemed and appeared to be in sync until he met a woman who stole his heart, ran away and then ran over it with disinterest. Nothing in his fragile life could deal with such an accident and hence death came knocking with the grim reaper grinning like a Cheshire cat.
What is to be done?
What is to be achieved?
What is to be left for those that thrive on delusion?
But a word, a gesture to be remembered and a sepia print of days gone by.
Goodbye is such a beautiful word…it encompasses everything…
The pill – a miracle for the prosaic – an exit to Disneyland,
a short trip then boredom sets in, the sign of satisfied ignorance.
Ordinary people are beautiful.
Ordinariness an ongoing catharsis self implanted in the cerebral cortex of those sterile of imagination and spirit. Benign bovines ruminating at a garbage dump somewhere where civic sense is absent out of choice.
What is the correct dosage for castrated government officials and petulant politicians? 2 pills a day to be taken with sufficient delusions so that the molecules work to invigorate and perpetuate aggrandizement through the unique process of corruption, which in turn creates sycophancy, the genuflection before false gods.
For the dispensers of medicare, 4 pills a day, the minimum dose to inculcate a sense of proportion to influence the absurd levels of fees that should be charged to those bovines susceptible to illnesses.
The teachers that promote education by forcing children to carry books (nearly their own weight) to school and back everyday – 10 pills not to be taken orally but inserted in the prime area where the sun doesn’t shine.
Married folk – 12 pills each to be swallowed whole during verbal intercourse so as to prevent them from fighting over the TV remote.
For those partial to the same sex, no dose applicable.
Others who live unconscious lives intentionally, 14 pills per day i.e. 7 orally and 7 inserted.
Creative folk including those that vandalize public property – a placebo to be swallowed whole through a straw while lying horizontal.
For tobacco/caffeine addicts – no dose as it may promote implosion of their pulsating extremities.
For self appointed religious retards and other cultural contraptions – 5 pills to be ground in holy water and gently applied all over the gray cells to enhance concept of free will and other related concepts.
A glass of Spanish or Chardonnay is often the recourse for genteel folk to retreat into the Serengeti of imagination; flickering colors and shapes like images in a kaleidoscope being viewed by a Schizophrenic.
As the body and mind merges into one warm wholesome being, thoughts of unabashed emotions slowly creep up and empower the inducer to become fleet footed of mind and senses – words and actions become synonymous with the free flow of life – no barriers just the great wide yonder beckoning like a bitch in heat.
In the inebriated nuances of wine and poses, the murmuring releases the bonds of perceived sanity and all is let loose upon the senses.
Many have succumbed to the seductions of wine. It’s bouquet, its aroma and its taste…a concerto conniving insidiously with the prosaic and the exotic to ignite sensory perceptions on the untraveled path to a world of the uninitiated.
Ask a Christian, they will tell you what it means to drink the blood of Christ.