Free and Clear by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 13
It is unobstructed daylight. I am up before Martha and have taken a seat in the euphemistically titled, “living” room of the Colasurdos. I sit on a Sears “colonial” sofa, which seems much too wide and deep for me alone. It is comfortably plushy and its horn-of-plenty repeating design seems to me to be the only thing truly reminiscent of the nineteenth century in the entire room.
The screen of the modern, devoid of style, TV is characteristically blank, waiting for me to push the magic button which turns it on. I decide that it can wait, the same way it treats me. Because of some subtly programmed, unknown lifelong conditioning, I stare at it, seeing the unenhanced and uncolored reflection of me. My Narcissism compels me to stare at the ghost, mercifully un-wrinkled in the inadequate pale reflection, as I optimistically imagine it to actually be twenty years prior. The black and white, visual depiction of my faulty remembrance of youth is briefly soothing. Yet, I know that this is an overly obvious farce, designed to extract from me what it can. I consider turning on the waiting electronic device, in the hope that its color pictures of happy days will make me forget the reality of a lifetime of forgetting dreams and making do. I know that it will not, but I am unable to disregard the poosibility; only reasonably hopeless.
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The quiet and solitude reminds me of my imagined existence in the sequestered darkness of being buried alive; far from a horrendous thought to one so incapable of happiness. Edgar Alan Poe is my prophet. I cannot see the treasured possessions of the materialistically striving Colasurdos, and think that I am lacking something fundamentally human in my inability. I make no judgment and momentarily just wish that I were them, but quickly dismiss that as a self-indulgent, indirectly romantic form of self-pitying desperation.
My wishes multiply and I see that there is no way to avert the realities of the tenuous and still uncomfortably cold morning. The invisible and mute, un-scrutinized and thereby overly successful master of deception visually beams a false and convincing clarity, easily taking in the hopeful and the practical daily considerations of the poorly-balanced. I sincerely wish I was not one of them, but I have not been blessed with the Christian, conceptual, magic bullet of free will. It has been and always will be my inescapable path to cry.
I sit in the Sear’s fashioned comfort of a go-getting, all-American life, and idiotically wonder why I a feel so empty and alone.
Martha and I have had the run of the house. Who could ask for more? The Colasurdos seem to make a point of finding reasons to be running an infinite supply of errands. Their shopping is
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always limited to a few items, which necessitates another trip whenever they try to prepare a meal, clean something or flush the toilet. While it is not very different from what Martha and I did when we were saddled with the Van Dalliants, we get another perspective, now being the undesirables on the reviled side of the ledger; lepers who are expected to be thankful for being allowed to exist with the un-diseased. It is a mentally, double-edged sword for both of us. While our long term goals were always to be free; free of money worries; free of intrusion; free of responsibility; and ultimately free of clawing human contact; now that we have attained that, we focus on what has been simultaneously denied; friends, respect, and a sense of never defined, earthly purpose. Why is it that the most important questions are the ones not addressed?
Martha and I find it better not to speak of these things, as the thoughts only serve to further depress, and it seems that there is no other suitable path anywhere near us. Once there were those avenues which were ridiculously and imminently foreseeable, quickly leading to a constant and often unannounced intrusion into our time together. I have no idea where the turns in the road were, but the thought that we missed something gnaws at me. Yet, in most ways, I don’t regret our early seeking of unrestrained personal freedom. At the time it seemed joyous, fulfilling, bold, and right. However, as we enter the last half
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of our lives, the identical circumstances seem desolate, unsatisfying, faint-hearted, and substantially off beam. I realize that what I am thinking is nothing new. Nothing is. I have lived in a time of the learned espousing the rational expectation of an inevitable double-bind. While I formerly thought their rhetoric to be merely fashionable despondency, I now consider the growing possibility that they were right. It’s a sobering thought. Not I; they were right. I’d never have imagined. Yet, if they are, what is the prize for their brilliance? An early expectation of failure? Wasn’t it preferable for Martha and I to have lived a longer time in ignorance of the reality of our severe limitations, which served to make the best of things, up until now, thriving in the present and vaguely in full expectation of this to continue forever? And having lived in that ignorance, why do we have to feel so bubble-busted when confronted with and assaulted by what really is the existence of today?
Maybe it’s their fault. Who are they? I don’t know. Maybe they are the gutless cynics who sneer, and say they find self-serving motivation in any statement of an unproven, bygone and rationally finished retrograde attempt at love. I find their loathed L-word undefinable beyond the simplistic statement saying that it is the caring and trust of the other which I find the only satisfying reason to live; confused by the therefore
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beneficial dynamic of being rewarded for my feelings. It seems undebatable that that reward is mutual. Masochistic? Hell, no!
The correct word is union. Can’t the designer prophets of today offer anything which is not merely a singular negation?
My half-dressed, delinquent co-obligor strides into the
“living” room with a smirk on her face, her left hand holding her Charlotte ruse creamy dessert. Her curly black hair is wildly askew with the involuntary movements of the night. My focus leaves my pathetic self and I consider her pathetic self.
I say; “Good morning,” in a half-assed tone.
She ignores the pitifully perfunctory overture and says;
“Turn on the TV. Tupac is supposed to be saying something of significance today. She joins me on the sofa and as she positions herself, her Charlotte deposits a few drops on my face. I extend my tongue to take in the sweetness, but can’t help showing frustration in its economy. After two decades, Martha is well aware of my consistent tendency to whine. In a simultaneously arrogant and understanding way she shoves the whole thing in my face and watches as I gorge myself. She finds an oral substitute for her Charlotte and I again lose sight of my perceived current realities; this time without a care. With a confidence I mentally and gastronomically admire she gets up and turns on the insolently confident, slumbering TV. Its immediate flash and moving images eliminate its ability to reflect, and
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present a standard community service type of picture, replete with the flagging signs of patriotism, conducive to the receipt of public funding. The TV shows a full color advertisement for some electric light discount house, which arrogantly tells me that; “You can either buy low or buy high.” I don’t buy it in either direction. The next image is that of a stage empty of human form. We are advised by someone invisible that regular programming has been interrupted, as the President is about to make a surprise speech, confirming what Martha has already told me. My face, still bearing the residue of Charlotte ruse, takes on the trained, blank expression of one with the ability to watch without seeing and listen without hearing. It seems practical and appropriate.
President Tupac Farnier strides to the podium. His inescapably patented scowl and well-practiced look of concern are firmly in place. His lips are sufficiently pursed to challenge a stoical mallard. He makes short and precise nods to the few he considers political allies and “drop dead” glares at those he doesn’t. He appears confident as all hell. He gives sideways glances to the money men sitting in the front row.
After reaching the pedestal, he laughed at something only known to him, snorted and said; “Thank you all. Mr. Speaker, Vice President Illinois Wright, members of Congress .......” He paused a second, then added; “And whoever the hell else is here.
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Glad you could make it and I mean that sincerely. My fellow Americans. You must have noticed that I’m not reading from any prepared script. I did have one prepared.” He briefly held up a stack of papers, then casually flipped them behind him.
“But, I’m not going to read the applause seeking banalities concocted by functionaries who dare not make a mistake. Many of you deride my 2032 campaign which promised new ideas and new solutions. You rightly ask; ‘Where are they? Show me one.’ The simple truth is that I can’t show you any, but that’s not for a lack of trying. The system dictates that I’ve got to obtain the co-operation of a bought and sold congress. They have done their best to make a financial-backer-induced mess of my National Health Care plan and then, through their media puppets had the pluck to effectively term the purposely convoluted and overly insurance-company-persuaded system ‘Tupacare.’ If they intended to convey any trace of truth in the terminology, the plan would have been dubbed; ‘Congress doesn’t care. ....... About anything devoid of significant cash contributions.’ I know the tired old game. I had to play it very well to get here.” Tupac shrugged, as if to say; “What the hell can you do?”
Grumbles were heard and the audience looked at each other quizzically. Tupac said; “That’s right. That’s precisely what I said; a bought and sold congress, who only serves those capable of the largest contributions. What are all the grumbles about?
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Everyone knows that’s the routine we live with. Don’t ask the New York Times or the Washington Post. Their advertisers bought and sold them decades ago. Ask the average American who everyday trudges off to some job beneath his dignity and education level.
He knows. He sees the reality which inter-related and incestuous official royalty tries to obscure. He has witnessed it for so long that he no longer speaks of it. He sees no point in belaboring the unchangeable obvious. It’s the same old boring and pathetic story which has been painfully recorded since we monkeys learned to write. The ‘contemporary” fashions of dress, housing and vernacular depicted only serve to confuse and obscure the simple truth which the powerful want confused and obscured. ............ You may well wonder why someone so entrenched in the system says this. You consider stress, mental illness, drunkenness, or the worn diatribe of excuse ridden failure. ......... It’s much simpler. Look, I don’t care. I played the game, only in order to get to a position where I could do something. I thought I could fool the entrenched interests, but while I have been here I have found that their decaying roots extend further than I can dig. I no longer contemplate what anyone thinks of me. If the CIA wants to point its guns at me, that’s their well-practiced modus operandi, and it’s expected. The uncomplicated fact of the matter is that I don’t have a rat’s ass of a chance to be re-elected next year.
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My own party will not even re-nominate me and no one; and I mean no one wants my endorsement. So, I’m free. I’m free to represent the understandably wary, and disenfranchised people of this country, just as I always desired. Perversely, my wish came to me in an unanticipated failure.”
He paused and took a sip from the water or vodka glass on the podium. “I know that many of you are thinking that this rhetoric is nothing more than a last ditch attempt to revitalize my political career. To you I say that I intend to finish out this term in office, CIA willing, and that I will never, under any circumstances, run for another. I wish more of our professional legislators would heed the wishes of our founding fathers, as clearly written in the Federalist Papers, that one should not make a career of politics. I think we’ve all seen the results of doing otherwise. It is said that what is good for IBM
is good for the country. I say nonsense. If we spend four hundred billion dollars, under the guise of promoting democracy, in order for IBM to have an additional source of cheap labor, with which they can make another forty million dollars a year, we all lose; except IBM. No two ways about it. The hawkish desire for militarism must be tempered with cost efficiency; determined from the viewpoint of the average American. Do any of you legislators still have the slightest notion of what that
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simple Americanistic statement actually means? Your actions indicate otherwise.
Since I have allowed my political bridges to burn, I may as well complete the thankless and effortless task. ....... Now, you good people, my people, have to understand something. You say that you are tired of politics as usual and that you want something new. ................ Isn’t that what you say? You bet your butt that you do. And you’ve been saying that for longer than I’ve been alive. I won the election with little more than a regurgitation of your statements.” He looked in the direction of the Supreme Court members who were standing at the right of the stage. He chuckled as he said; “Maybe you guys can recall the time of the musket; original intent, and all that stuff, which is no longer a part of our reality.” He received dispassionate stares from those with guaranteed lifelong tenure, luxury and respect.
Tupac smirked and continued; “I didn’t expect any of you to laugh. Hell, at your ages, I didn’t even think that you’d be capable of hearing me. But, let me get back to my people, my only constituency. After you say you want new solutions and get presented with one, you know what you do every time? Every single time?” He eyeballed the bodies in the room and they appeared ready to be something other than shell-shocked by the well-thought-out banalities of their expected oncoming of the
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politics-as-usual, excuse-ridden, nullification twist.
“Invariably you say; ‘Sure, we want change, but no, not that.’
......... It’s a sad fact; and it happens every time. Every goddam time. Tell me that I’m wrong. I’d really appreciate it.”
Tupac gazed around the room and wherever he focused his piercing eyes, heads became occupied with pointless note taking.
“I’ll tell you a little personal story. The angriest my sweet wife, Estelle, ever got at me was many years ago. We had recently married and we were aimlessly driving around Connecticut, taking in a warm summer evening. We were happy with the world, had high hopes for an illustrious future and were aroused. You know what I’m sayin’.” He looked at Estelle and while she was smiling she was shaking her head; “No.” Tupac laughed and said; “Oh, yes, yes, yes. I could always tell.
Anyway, this sweet little bundle told me that she wanted to stop for some ice cream. I drove to one of the Pleasant Palate franchises; got out of the car to go inside and asked her what flavor, size, sprinkles and all of that. She informed me that she no longer wanted ice cream. I thought; ‘Okay, fine.’ We drove around some more and the same thing happened twice more.
On the fourth stop at the Pleasant Palate I was ...........
testy. Yeah, that’s the right word. When I again asked her the flavor, she said; ‘I don’t know,’ to which I responded; ‘Do you want the fucking ice cream or don’t you?’ You might have
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correctly guessed that neither of us got any ice cream that night and I fell asleep watching ‘White Fang’ on the couch.
So, the point is, people, do you want the fucking ice cream or don’t you? I’m going to say it flat out. I’ve got an idea that might bring us out of this economic morass. Frankly, it might not, but I don’t see how it could hurt. To alleviate the perennial and growing deficit, I am offering the sale of the state of New Jersey to private investors.”
Tupac smiled, again surveyed the room and received perplexed stares. “Hell, de facto, the Japanese already own California; the Spanish already own New Mexico; and we’re none the worse for it. I say let’s make it official and let’s make them pay.”
Tupac walked off and unnecessarily waved off any questions.
The silence was earsplitting.
Those watching on TV heard Tom Lauder of Action News cautiously offer; “Well, there you have it. I guess that it’s safe to say that this was an unusual press conference and I’m completely unprepared to comment as I was expecting the President to stick with the prepared speech I received prior to it. Any thoughts, Richard?”
Richard Stitt said; “I agree with you Tom. Extremely unusual.”
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Not desirous of hearing the air-time-filling-non-insights, I shut the TV and laugh, saying; “Refreshing. Bet he gets shot or bombed by a home grown terrorist. Undoubtedly we have sufficiently nourished another borderline psychotic with CIA ties, who will just happen to surface and miraculously will be able to get near Tupac carrying a gun or bomb. Won’t we all be surprised?”
On another line of thought, Martha says; “We live in New Jersey. What will happen to us?”
“Nothing. We don’t own it now and we still won’t after it’s sold.”
“That’s so simplistic. There are bound to be ramifications, some detrimental to us.”
“Do you want the fucking ice cream or don’t you?”
Martha stuck out her tongue and took in a huge chunk.
A week later and disappointingly void of any follow-up on the Tupac declared, civil departure from the acceptably straight and narrow, I find myself again alone on the sofa. In the booming silence I scrutinize this “living” room. One of the four walls is painted with an attention seeking mix of pink and orange. It does effectively stands out from the others which are done in an eggshell white. Its prominence has attracted a collection of small pictures, arranged in a diamond pattern. The
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reproductions don’t reek of any obvious relationship with the Colasurdos, as their subjects are abstract and thereby not obvious in their meaning. I wish that the artists had given me a clue by naming them. I wonder what the painters intended the soft swirling pastels and geometric symbols to convey; and what they meant at the time of purchase to our graciously absent hosts. My guess is that the answer is nothing; hence their names. They are there to take up space, while being suggestive of an unquestionably sophisticated taste. To say they reminded one of internet wallpaper would be gauche. In all likelihood they were purchased for the most American of reasons; they were on sale. My ivory towered, overly sensitized, aesthetic evaluation of that which is in front of me finds only one essential thing lacking. Rather than what would be interpreted as a bitchy focus on the judgmental, eye-pleasing, characteristics of this “living” room, my only true complaint is that this room conveys no feeling of having been lived in. It has rather become a repository of the safe and the cheap; one short step from the junkyard; an economically convenient excuse for taking no responsibility. I do not judge or condemn. I merely attempt to make my own, defensive categorization, as today, I have little else to occupy my mind.
The almost white walls stand unfettered in the nakedness they have had since the day of the realistic painter. They are
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partially hidden at their bottoms by small “contemporary,”
assemble-yourself, chests, lamp tables, and a TV stand on wheels. The TV itself defies self-assembly; thus far in my existence. Though more and more of its entertainment oriented, canned-laughing, half-hours have been consistently usurped by the infinitely available websites attainable on the swaggering, always ready internet, it continues to occupy a space in which I and dare I say, we have become comfortable. There are no books or CD’s to distract the eyes and ears. In a momentary, foolishly, and unconsciously privileged, irrelevant fantasy, I wonder if this is used as a “show” room or if it is only a neglected one. I consider the possibility that both suspicions are not mutually exclusive. Things have too often not been obvious to me; and too often out and out contradictory. The thought is humbling. My only safety is to feel that I am compelled to be reluctantly nationalistic, said by someone to be the last bastion of scoundrels, securely sequestered in a room fabricated by the reclusive American designer with the name;
“Least Cost Eclecticism.”
Without the remotest of attempts, I recall my last week of high school. I am simultaneously compelled to attempt forgetting the wrinkles Martha and I have earned in the time that seems to have viciously attacked. On that long ago and far away day I think I clearly remember that the weather was that of a warm and
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clear, typical-good-day, Jersey, early June. At the time, the mornings required a light jacket or rapid movement; while by 11AM conditions were perfect to go about in whatever one had chosen. Classes were over and the kids were there to say their last goodbyes, get yearbooks signed, and show their graduation presents. I suddenly didn’t want to leave the place I had dreaded going to for four years. The people who had previously seemed dismissive and rude in their haste to go about their daily activities were relaxed and friendly. Their smiles made me blue, as I realized that I would never see these unknown people again. I wished I had made the effort to have gotten to know them better when there was the time and opportunity, though it was only in the brief and busy spell allotted. I hung around the school the entire week, well after the majority had left. I was brought back to this planet when a small boy I didn’t know well at all, signed my yearbook, writing; “George, your ass; Daniel.”
Martha enters the room, coffee in hand, and silently sits next to me in the mixture of memories, wishes, inadequate communication devices and the efficient realities of the room.
Unlike me, she characteristically maintains her posture as that of a well coping resident of the ever aspiring present. She is wearing her I-don’t-give-a-damn thermals. Her hair is all over the place. Her expression seems to say that she finds something
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mildly amusing. In my vanity I think it must be me. She says;
“Are the Colasurdos out?”
I appreciate the opening bromide, but insufficiently answer; “I don’t know,” my characteristically recent response to most everything. I immediately wish I could have made a more definitive answer, but am afraid of being again wrong.
She wrinkles her lips in a contemptuous fashion and sips her microwave-heated coffee. Whenever she pours herself a cup, she heats it in the little machine of final touches; whereas I cool mine in the refrigerator. The heat provided by Mr. Coffee is obviously inadequate for her and too much for me. I scratch my cheek and suddenly feel the need to clear my nasal passages.
The fallaciously necessary activity temporarily obscures my inability to communicate. The time bought is not enough, as when I have finished the staged delusion, I am still replete of meaningful words.
Martha gulps the last of her “Everyone Loves Nurses” cup, places it on the coffee table in total disregard for the coasters. She leans back and casually adjusts her well-worn thermals. I get a glimpse of the horn of plenty, now amplified by the exciting, therapeutic revelation of that which is problematic for Western holies. I immediately think that I again have the right answers and position myself to demonstrate my
“wisdom.” Martha is calmly un-amazed, perhaps in full
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expectation of my long practiced bow. The earth is all, and she has always known that much better than me. I love her and recognize that I cannot live without her, no matter how “living”
our room is purported to be. I desperately need her and do my utmost to show that in a wordless, yet linguistic fashion. Soon, I again return to my primordial, natural beginnings and want to remain in place forever. The transitory nature of this nondescript, but comforting room tells me the undeniable reality. Martha gushes. I feel worthy. I know that all too soon I will not and attempt to prolong the coming of the sweet refreshment on my lips. With closed eyes, I move my head around, attempting to greedily be blessed with the abundant holy water.
I feel as if I was kneeling before the apostolic supplier of life, warmth and fluid nourishment. She retracts in a spasm. I look into her eyes and humbly say; “Don’t stop now. I’ll slow down.” She holds back an interminable second; then gives me an opportunity. Though I am driven to accelerate, I control myself and slowly go over the same ground, this time even more appreciative of every nuance contained in the terrain. She shudders as if she was uncomfortable. My biggest fears pop into my mind and I slow down to less than a crawl, hoping both that she was enjoying and that this wouldn’t end. I am elated to receive a tranquil, fleshy morsel, seemingly capable of an infinity of love’s pleasure. I go as slowly as I can, but my
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excitement prompts me to pick up speed. Martha grinds against me and I interpret that as my having done something good. I cannot feel better than this. This is my reason for creation. She squirms and rotates in circles like an irrational universe. The cup pours out its last drops and I hungrily drink. I look up at her. Her eyes are closed and her face is that of a well-nourished rabbit. I stop my endeavors and wait for a signal to continue. She opens her eyes and looks toward the clock. It seems to bring her back to a place where money and time dominate. I try to seduce her into another round of escape. I kiss the entire eminently-domained region of her tasty gratification and beg her to make time stand still. She kindly and graciously permits my greedy and indigent indulgence. She smiles at me wickedly, and purrs; “You are a gourmand.” I gently kiss her in the hopes of producing further interest in me.
Sensing no physical response I passionately kiss her, longing for Eros to do his job. Her motionless body tells me that she has other interests. In the enacting of my best approach, I wish she would tell me what they are and let me participate. She doesn’t do it in words, but she takes the TV controller in hand.
I am jealous that her dexterous maneuvers are not anything about me. I am again beginning to feel lost and inadequate; at the same time realizing that I am a needy nuisance. I have been ridiculously emotional of late and start to cry; in full
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realization that the tears are for both of us; not only me. I kiss her as I try to show a begging look in my eyes as I watch her commandeer the channels to a place she wants to be now. The news program, on which she has settled, intermittently reverberates in my ears, alternating with the deafening constriction of her thighs. I frantically try to maintain the cover of my input receptacles with her warmth. As I do whatever I can to induce her interest, through gazing at her face, I dejectedly see that my efforts no longer matter to her. She looks at the screen. In a last ditch effort to keep her interest, I abandon all considerations of propriety. I love and kiss every part of her I can reach. I look to her eyes as an indicator of her care for me. Rather than care, I think I detect that her gaze has become one of voluptuous abandonment. As I caress the parts of her she has shown and allowed, I can’t help but up tempo. I mumble; “Treat me as your pig. I don’t care. I’m lost in the beauty of you. Please help me. I’ll do anything you desire.” She seemed curious at my pleas. I saw her look at me with unarticulated, pointed uncertainties. I worried that she would properly see me as someone contemptible and pathetic. I had no countering answers for which words did justice and I was in no position to speak clearly. I had thought-forms in my damaged head which were as vibrant as the relentless barrages of sky provided every day. Yet, mute, I can’t help but wish and
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hope that she will understand. More than anything, I hope she will understand, and if she doesn’t, I wish that she might find some thrill in my being her slave. She is my life.
I see that I am lost in the popularly decreed monitor of what the world says they expect and respect. My heart dies as I watch her observation shift from the meager offerings I can supply to the mass-accepted and financially remunerative productions of the rich and wily. I know that her interest has departed from me, and has gone to the supposedly cutting edge and sharp images provided by the untalented film school graduates. I kiss her nether regions in a last effort to keep her interest. She seems put off by the unbecoming display of distressed love which I am dying to show. She pulls away from me, and I stand up in my rejection. I am successful in not producing the tears which are at the corners of my eyes. I sit next to her, not knowing what to expect, and am somewhat recompensed with her talking to me, saying; “A little later, babe. The President is on soon. He has some new BS to lay on every sucker.”
I try not to take her words as a deftly phrased personal rejection. I struggle to have faith in a glorious future. I sit next to her as she holds the controller as if it were something with which she, and she alone, had domination of the world. She pushed the buttons secret to me and the screen produced an
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announcer, charged with the task of filling air space with something seemingly insightful for the populace, yet not offensive to the sponsors of “breaking news.” The result was one with which Martha and I shared a diminutive, yet personally rewarding, comic view and smile, at the well-paid and goes-with-the-territory expense of the ill-trained, ratings frantic, detached player.
Martha smiled at me with a melancholy look in her eyes. The dichotomy was something which might have been perplexing and confusing to the uninitiated. I thought that I understood by now; the optimism of which, I tried to keep at the forefront of my hopefully inaccurately assessed and thereby something more than inept existence. Her hardheaded kindness had gotten me this far, and even in the cold world of logic, indicated that it was most likely to continue in the same mode.
I was inundated with the craving to show her something out of the ordinary. Her fastidious current interest in all things she found noteworthy on the electronic Cyclops, precluded any attempt I could make at anything “nouveau.” I was despondent in that I thought her popularly persuaded realization of life’s possibilities in the twenty-first century, might have been expertly produced by a well-credentialed, though feeling-impaired holder of national esteem, insistent upon a self-serving trade-off at best and a complete defeat for one at the
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worst; a hopeless double-bind of winners causing losers, often within occupancy of the same body. I made a deal with god. I would give up two decades of my life for a return to a time when intentions were not dismissed as self-serving pathologies designed to inflict wrongly placed sympathy on the soft-hearted and stupid. I looked into her eyes and saw her persistent fascination with One-Eye. I vowed to fairly return the great favor of the ridiculously worshipped master of misinformation and doer of nothing, substituting the ease of benign neglect as an unquestionable improvement.
I decide to ignore any dictates implied in the collected writings of humans politically deemed to be speaking for the backward chant of a fair minded creator. I saw what was; homelessness, poverty, despair, misunderstanding, death and disease. But upon short reflection, I undoubtedly decide that rather than being further depressed by the reality which was induced by the collective limitations of the lame, that, instead I would look to the texturally superior, fertile, and natural hills of Martha. She sits next to me and makes no attempt to conceal her charms. Rather than continuing to be bogged down in the never ending thought process, I decide to take the initiative. I can’t stand it any longer. I am in the desperate straits of desire. I overcome my shy nervousness by pretending I am Bogart. I gingerly put the index finger of my right hand on
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the centrality of what I most loved and am not rebuked. I feel as if this is the happiness promised by the concept of a promised land. It is a difficult journey; it is an easy journey.
Regardless, here we are; on soil which few had trod; finally, and I hope forever. I kiss her passionately.
Martha makes an uncharacteristically long and loud moan and says; “The President is about to start the press conference.
Let’s see the double-speaking theatrics.”
I consider over-acting, but find it better to dismiss the educated guess based on past experience. Too much like Physics and almost as jolly. Besides, like one with autism, I am oblivious to the attempted intrusions of a world which specializes in duplicity. Much too common and expected. However, to share it in a humorous vein seemed an old, joyful approach I would like to experience with a soul mate. I mirrored Martha in staring at the Cyclops.
With his affected, “worldly wise” and everyday cynicism designed to connote intelligence and not offend, the un-pictured, male announcer speaks over the static depiction of an empty, US, red, white, and blue congested stage. His “exciting”
monotone conveys the impression that something of significance is impending. They all always sound that way, even when interviewing an out-of-town visitor to the Empire State Building. His hushed tone is deeply respectful of the
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fascination with the banal demanded by his sponsors. Martha and I laugh, with one hand each in the adjacent lap. The well-paid TV shill says that Tupac Farnier was still bristling with “new ideas” and again reminds us that he has called another press conference. I am appreciative of the confirmation as I am afraid that Tupac is going to rescind what he had previously said and is ready to falsely attribute the prior event to the tardy discovery of another rogue hologram.
The panning screen visuals are so artistically cutting edge that they succeed in detracting from the consequence of the announcer. The solemnity of the event seems to paralyze the faces of the dutifully attending politicos; a well-practiced, convincingly concerned posture an experienced observer could recall from every obligatory event, including the arrival of the
“Mr. Softee” truck. The publicly available, attendance monitoring system serves to benefit those perennially present.
This is the solitary demonstrable brilliance of their measurable acts. They can say; “At least I showed up,” as their claim to having had worked hard furthers their longevity, and continues, understandably, to be their only clearly stated concern, other than the unmentionable refrigerator cash.
The desperate-for-news media representatives worry that their lack of pre-printed cards will coerce them into formulating a personally limiting point of view with which to
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attempt to maintain their audience. The unionized workmen trudge through their duties as they are once again charged with the task of bringing out and properly positioning every available US
flag which can be located within twenty miles of the stage. With the aid of the fans, the surplus and overcrowded red, white and blues jockey for a prominent position their numbers preclude.
Being hidden in the indistinguishable mass is of benefit to those lacking the currently correct number of stars. The workmen do their best to ensure a lack of criticism as their meticulously paced work succeeds in strangling only the stage.
The circumstance staggers me in its pomp, as I sit under my relentless and stupidly-expectant-of-reasonability expectations.
Hindsight blares at me that, had I any brains, I would have discarded all such outlooks at the age of five, when I was sent off to school. However, I seem to have always had some innate, redeeming ability to recognize that I was in America; land of the free and the audacious new; and not some irrelevant European tied to a botched and deceitfully recounted glorious past.
The bland inoffensive, Midwestern cadence of the knowingly and possibly faux, ill-informed, enterprising, middle-of-the-road TV announcer drones the significance and inadvertently to him and his writers, the implied insignificance of this day. He has no thoughts of this possibility as his only concern is that for his lucrative job; which is to fill air time with words
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generated by those in the employ of those in control, who, on their feigned and thoughtlessly dominant, ergo popular surface are machinated by well-paid, and idolized, experts of deception to seem of import to the lowest common denominator’s educationally “enhanced” and public (without momentous risk substitute “governmental”) conception of their perceived lack of understanding. The show is a result of their too-tired-to-bother with futility dichotomous subterfuge regarding the real interests of the powers that be; hence the attainment of high popular Arbitron ratings and the attendant monetary personal reward for all those in position to publicly take some credit for the charade.
I construe and anticipate the logician’s expectation of the inevitable return to business as usual. All information is undoubtedly biased, invariably inclusive of mine. To me, as others, this probability has become a virtually guaranteed norm, often understood more cynically than is warranted, within the constraint that, in the widespread interpretation, I am, of necessity, optimistically assuming that the issuer of the biased statements understands the to-date unbeatable and colossal joke.
Tupac appears and seems to have a demeanor which suggests that he finds the whole thing self-effacingly humorous. His normally self-assured and sarcastic face displays something foreign. I interpret the posture as some sort of belatedly
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learned humility. He stoically and ploddingly steps to the podium, presumably finding the mandated and creepy insectile backtrack he is about to express something which should have been in his overly optimistic scenario of previously anticipated possibilities. His posture reflects a stance common to the citizenry; somewhat slouched and thwarted; but possibly still anticipatory of the logically self-interested co-operation, which will undoubtedly result in mutual benefit to all.
Tupac says; “Thanks to everyone; those in this room, those electronically connected; and those here only in spirit. I’m going to get right to the point. I made an error in judgment.
Sorry, what else can I say? If I were Dubya, or if I were Iodine Head I’d have had a prepared speech emphasizing the dubious progress made since my last communique. High–priced-seat, suckers of the federal teat would have been rehearsed in the precise moment when their applause, whistles and catcalls were called in. You are well accustomed to all of that. What you are not accustomed to is the compounding level of ‘sophisticated”
nuance at each step. ....... Nor, should you be. That’s my job, and I’m not doing it very well.
New Jersey has attracted little interest in the investment community. Some have concerns about the legal verdicts yet to come; some want the federal government to hold paper, defeating the purpose; and some think that the mob already owns it.
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Whatever the case; we’re not likely to be getting a nickel from investors. ....... I know; I too am very disappointed. But, I haven’t given up hope. I’m here today to announce that the federal government has withdrawn the New Jersey offer; but that we are substituting Montana; unsullied, pristine, no known nuclear waste and of utmost importance; without many people to make a fuss. Unlimited potential. ....... Energy self-sufficient for at least a century. Our brave forefathers didn’t have all the advantages. If Franklin, Washington, the Adamses and Jefferson were alive today they would not hesitate. ............
Perhaps, in their times, we’d have had some degree of difficulty in getting them to pay any real money for it. But this is 2035.
US dollars are all over the place. It’s difficult not to trip over one.
So, come on people. Help America the way America has helped so many and make a lot of money doing it. Name towns and counties after yourselves. Show everyone your good old enterprising and adventurous American spirit. Be a true patriot and get rich too.”
Tupac walked off, pointing to a number of “money men” who were using their hands to applaud, rather than keeping them in their pockets.
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I don’t know what to think. Maybe this is truly just an adjustment. At least the entire concept hasn’t been taken off the table. I consider getting the money from my pal, Schultzy; but don’t think I would like the Montana cold at all.
Alternatively; absentee ownership is always a guaranty of a problem. And one problem compounds the other; ALWAYS.
Martha shrugs and gets comfortable. So do I.
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