Tag Archives: commentary

A Park Play

12 Oct

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I am on vacation… sitting onna park bench, with a quad latté, watching a crow and two seagulls fight over a trash can.

…We’ll call ’em Ed, Vincent, and Jane…

…When I first arrived, Ed, (the snow white seagull) was lording over the lip of the can, not so much interested in exploring it’s contents, as being seen as owning them. He just stood there constantly looking around him to make sure the others were watching. “The others,” including a group of Mallards who were too busy picking at bugs in the grass, and what are apparently his arch nemeses: a Crow (Vincent), and brown speckled Seagull (Jane), who were watching closely from about five feet away.

…At first I thought it was an exercise in manliness on behalf of Ed for the benefit of Jane…as if owning the goods Vincent couldn’t, made him the better man. Especially as Vincent circled the can behind, and Jane began a yordle-yell, holding Ed’s rapt attention.

“Yeah, I got this, babe,” Ed seemed to wink, as Jane’s scream lowered to a sultry growl, “You got more than that, hot stuff,” she purred…until suddenly—!

–Vincent attacked from behind! It was immediate and vicious, as he shoved Ed from the top of the can with a body slam, leaving him dazed on the ground, flicking his head, with Jane immediately erupting into shrill laughter.

…”It was a whole Bonnie and Clyde set-up!,” I thought to myself in wonder, as Vincent nodded Jane’s way and began picking at the contents of the can. Ed, meanwhile, humiliated and bruised, yelled “Fuck you, Vincent!,” as he wobbled off on his own…away from the Mallards and past my table…where I wasn’t totally sure but I thought I heard him mumble, “…I hope you choke onna used rubber…”

…Naturally I had to laugh at this, spewing Cosmonaut coffee out my nose, and pulling Vincent’s attention for a half a second…

…Which was all Jane needed, to clear the distance ‘tween her and the can, jump up on its lip, and facing Vincent, let out a giant scream…biggest yet…which startled him so much he backed off the can into mid air and sorta hung there…like in a cartoon. When he came-to and tried to re-land, he got another yell from Jane…and then another.

“…But baby, I —”

“–PISS OFF!”

“…But honey you said–”

“–I SAID: OUT!”

…And then, I swear to you…she started reaching into the can and flicking trash at him…

“–AND TAKE ALL YOUR SHIT WITH YOU!”

“…What? What? I don’t understand…??”

“–YOUR CRAPPY CHIP BAG…THAT EMPTY CUP…THIS OLD TOILET PAPER ROLL. HOW MANY GD TIMES HAVE I TOLD YOU TO GET RID OF THIS GD TOILET PAPER ROLL…!?”

“…But you said you liked the toilet paper roll. You said it would look nice in the front nest…”

“FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, I SAID THAT, VINCENT. A LIFETIME AGO. AND NOTHING HAS CHANGED! I CAN’T TAKE THE MONOTONY ANY MORE! ALWAYS THE SAME GRIFT, THE SAME END…THE SAME EVERYTHING. I NEED TO START THINKING ABOUT ME AND MY FUTURE AND WHAT I REALLY WANT OUT OF LIFE. AND IT’S NOT YOU VINCENT. WE’RE THROUGH.”

…After this final shriek of Jane’s refuse-flinging outburst, Vincent ceased his attempts at regaining his ground. He looked around assessing the damage of his rejected personal items strewn across the lawn, while the Mallard neighbors watching slyly from afar tried not to make eye contact, as they gossiped amongst themselves.

“…Janes finally doing it…I knew she would, I knew she would–”

“–Poor bastard, isn’t that just the way of it? She just had to do it on a busy Monday lunch break too…no privacy at all…”

“I always said it would never work: those two…”

“–Don’t be racist, Delphine…”

“– I’m not! It’s a matter of religion and temperament!”

…And so on…as Vincent, all alone, took flight, leaving all his mess of things and broken heart, behind.

I’m not entirely sure what the moral of the story is, as Jane continues to work on her trade-goods alone. Maybe it’s about how being a woman of independent means is infinitely more satisfying than settling into a life of “making due.” Maybe it’s a commentary on middle age crises and the need to reinvent oneself to reinvigorate life-purpose.

…And maybe it was just: Jane is a giant bitch.

…We may never know.

~D

The Parable

17 Jan

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I’ll not write what this is really about…instead it’ll be an exercise in restraint, specificity and coded themes.

…How can one mix such an oxymoronic cocktail?

I dunno.  But people seem to frequently, so lets see if I can keep up.

(And, I can.)

…I’m actually getting better at this all the time. 

The power of print is a heady beast.  Ask anyone who has it, or takes it, or prostitutes it at will.

As bloggers, we all do.  In some way. 

A point of view struck in type is just our slant on the world, coded in html text, and slapped on a server.  Used to be more of a “to-do” than that, requiring physical paper and ink…and (for a readership,) usually an editor and some kind of talent.

But not anymore. 

…Even with the editor and paper and ink, the written word often seems a dieing artform. Any idiot with a computer or cell phone can vomit words on a “page” now, with nearly limitless readership…for instance: case in point:

I have a blog.

And you are reading it.

Sucker.

Now, some will take what I say as fact.

Some will not.

Some will agree with what I say.

Some will claim that I am full of shit.

…But I suppose what I find most interesting about all this (in fact “interesting” is not quite the correct word, I suppose “annoyingly irritating” comes as a two-part substitution), is when words are put to politicking use, where there was absolutely no reason to, in the least.

…Like all those annoying FB updates belching extremism all over the place.  Cuz THAT is what you wanna scroll through on your finally achieved coffee break, or while slamming a sandwich at lunch.

…And add to that, the “hipster” craze of ridiculousness, and really…sometimes my stream makes me want to just close the account and walk away forever. Only I can’t. Cuz I’m a fucking human. But that doesn’t change the fact of how goddamn irritating it is, that it’s a “fad” now for people to quote principles they don’t necessarily believe in, or go against the agreed-upon plan or opinion, just because it is the different, non-mainstream thing to do.

It is fucking asinine to me. 

Really?

…You can’t like your favorite band now, because other people have actually heard of them at this point? 

…You’ll vote against that one dude just because they are the current establishment? 

…You hate that brand, movie, actor, car, restaurant…because other people actually enjoy them? 

…Because it makes you smarter than them to not have partaken of the Kool-Aid (or some shit), and everyone in power now is always wrong, and every choice was poorly made because you weren’t the one to make it, and now your frustrated little poser heart, (which unfathomably seems to get-off on taking the opposite opinion view, just because its “different”)…can secretly orgasm with delight tonight (alone, of course, because no one is good enough to actually sleep with you…and if they were, you wouldn’t want them anyway…)

…Or maybe not.

…Maybe I’m misjudging them, like they do to the us’s.

Is it “fair” that I should get to, if my gripe is all about them doing it first?

Do two wrongs make a right?

This is me: trying to understand what it really means…the frustration that I feel…why I feel it…as well as using the best of my conscious ability to see it from all (even the asinine) points of view.

Which is more than most people will give you.

…And you know what? It STILL pisses me off and is wrong.

…But that’s just my own humble opinion.

Only let me tell you this one thing. As my own little “case in point.” And then I’ll shut it down.

For now.

…A kind of parable if you will:

A woman walks into the ER, and after showing her ID, is taken into the IC ward. There is a young person laying there, face beat to shit, bones broken, bruises everywhere, blood seeping through the sutured wounds.

“That’s my son,” she says as she looks on in horror.

“Are you sure?” the Doctor says, bringing her closer to the bed. “He had no ID on him at the time of the accident…and he’s severely wounded.”

“I know my son,” the woman says, reaching her hand out to grasp the one on the hospital bed. “I’d know him anywhere. By smell, by feel, the way his eyelashes fall..that freckle by his left ear…I know the way he breathes when he sleeps, like he’s doing right now. There’s nobody can tell me different. I carried that boy inside of me for months. My whole body labored for him. I’ve nurtured him, cried with him, laughed with him…I know him better than anyone else in the world…because it was my job to. And no manner of beatings or broken bones or bruises could ever disguise what I know to be true. Nothing anybody says or does, will ever change that.”

“I’d guess you’d know best,” the Doctor then agrees, with a scribble on the chart before him. “Can’t argue with the woman who gave birth to him, now can I?”

“Well, you could, Doctor,” the woman comments from her station beside the bed, “but you’d look like a damn fool if you did.”

~D

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