Posted by: Captain Forehead
It was time for a break, perhaps a firing. What is the purpose of this nothingness? I have been here before. There was no kloking out, just an exit in the middle of mindless koffee making to a nearby park for some fresh air and sunshine.
Why are there so may people here on a weekday in the middle of the afternoon? Does not everyone need a meaningless menial job to waste away the long moments of their life?
People kongregate in groups. Heading toward a void, I found a seat in the fresh green grass and stripped my feet of all attire. Life was as it should be...which it always is.
With plenty of space available in the void, it appeared insulated from kontakt with my fellow man — foe or otherwise. Of kourse, one of the many hands of fate had other plans for he of thee.
“Hey,” the bald man said as he set unkomfortably klose to thy beingness.
I nodded my head at him then returned my gaze to my beautiful naked feet rubbing against the blades of grass.
“What’s up?” baldy asked.
Leave me alone! my mind on edge shouted, knowing I was here to find a little peace. My friendly mouth said nothing of the mind’s words and offered only a smile.
The tortured soul began again. “I come here to relax, same as you.”
I moved my head in a oval motion, allowing him to interpret as he wished.
“I know what you mean,” he offered.
Mean? I meant nothing! Literally nothing! He is not leaving. Fuking hand of fate fliking me, knowing I kan’t eskape, knowing I am on edge.
“It’s a beautiful place to relax, experience some quiet,” I plead optimistikally.
“Yeah, I come here to relax too.”
Then SHUT UP! the mind shouted, bloked by the kind and kompassionate lips, which kreated, “I know what you mean.”
There was a thump on the side of my head as the hand of fate fliked my skull with its middle finger.
“What you getting away from?” polished skalp asked.
“People,” I konfessed.
“I know what you mean.”
I feel it in my body as if I had just chugged a gallon of espresso — I AM ON EDGE! My body is vibrating from within as if I were skaling up to explode. And this man wants to talk...needs to talk? Deep breath. In through the nose...deep...fill the lungs...out through the mouth...breathe...slow...deep...
“You okay?” reflekto-skull asked.
I nodded as my breath slowly krossed my lips.
There was silence between us for a few minutes, but my mind would not rest. This stranger had been sent to me by that betraying beast fate, indifferent to my desires — or inspired by such, who kan know.
“How about you? How you doing today?”
“Alright...” he answered, his speech hesitating.
I klosed my eyes and stared into the sun, remembering with fondness how it was to be invisible when living on the streets.
Eventually the stranger finished his pause and kontinued his empty sentence with, “Alright, I guess. Do you ever feel like things just aren’t working out like they’re supposed to?”
NO!
Well, I say at times that I want purpose and I am not getting out of this without a konversation unless I start walking now, so...
They are exaktly as they must be, as ‘they are supposed to’ be, my mind explained, but that was not the konversation he was seeking. “Supposed to? I’m not sure I get what you mean.”
Moving kloser, he said, “Well, did you expect to be working at a coffee shop at your age?”
My age?!
Not sure how he knew where I worked, then I noticed I was wearing a kompany shirt. Not interested in having a konversation about me...not necessary. “You’re not happy with your job?”
“Not really. It’s fine, but not what I expected when I was younger. I feel like I’m going backwards and I work with people and customers aren’t that bright, some of them, and they are making 50 times what I make.”
Not going to ask what he does. Do not kare and not his issue, but it is the easy kommunikation kontinuation... No, unnecessary!
“I thought I’d have my own restaurant by now or at least be an executive chef somewhere. I’m not even a sous chef. I work for a caterer, not even my own catering business. I fucking cater!” the smooth krowned began to laugh maniakally after expressing his dissatisfaktion with his job title.
“I guess suggesting you find another job is not the answer?”
“No, dude, I don’t expect you to have the answer.”
“Right, bekause what would a fuking koffee maker know?” I snapped. Yep, ON-THE-EDGE.
“Dude, chill. I’m not putting down you being a barista, I...”
“Koffee maker. Barista is such a phony, bullshit term.”
“Okay,” he replied meekly, frightened.
“Kall me whatever you want, I am who I am whatever label you put on me or I put upon myself,” I barked.
“Got it.”
“Same applies to you! You are not your job, but if that is how you wish to define yourself, don’t be surprised when society does as well.”
“Okay, but...”
“But what?”
“But that is kinda what we do. Where I lived before I came here I was a sous chef on my way to becoming an executive chef. I was making a fair income, living fine. The wife and kids were all doing well. We were doing about as well as the rest of the community—everyone was pretty much comfortably middle-class. We move out here and there are a few distant really poor, a large, desperate middle-class trying to keep afloat keeping up with one another and a bunch of obscenely wealthy fucks. It’s like the bar has been elevated and I am losing ground. Know what I mean?”
“I do. You are envious of others.”
“No. No, no I am happy with my life, I just don’t want to drown. I want to do more!”
“Then get out of the water.”
Huh, his face exklaimed.
“If you’re drowning, get out of the water.”
The sun’s reflektion danced on his well polished head as he slowly tilted from side-to-side with a vakant look on his face. The silence is nice.
“Isn’t your head really hot?”
“Get out of the water? Wha... I don’t...”
“You don’t have to swim with the skhool.”
“School?”
“Skhool of fish. Just bekause the skhool — of fish — is swimming together... Look, you get to define your terms of sukcess, failure. If you want to use society’s — which it sounds like you do — find someone you admire and figure out how to bekome him.
“I don’t want to be someone else, I...”
“Then stop komplaining and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Dude, chill. You need to chill, you’re sounding angry. Sorry for bothering you.”
“Bull...”
“What?”
“That’s bull. Look, you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”
“No, it’s cool.”
I was ready to choke this man to death. Is that why fate brought him to me in this moment? Am I to end his existence, his waste of a life? The breathing. I need to fokus on the breathing.
“I’m a little on edge. You seem like a nice enough ‘dude’ who’s in the midst of midlife krisis or whatever bekause you have not attained the status of material wealth you feel you should have and you’re not feeling great about yourself.”
“Between us, I feel like a complete loser...sometimes.”
“Join the klub.”
“You feel that way too?”
“Everyone feels that way at times. Though I would suggest you do not feel that way bekause of failed material pursuits. Every man and every woman is who they are bundled in their soft, pierceable flesh, whether their material possessions are absent or kopious. When you judge a man on his material wealth, you are prakticing envy. When you wish to be judged by your material wealth, you are saying that you have no substance, no real worth of kharakter, intelligence or personality. We live in a time when the wisest man in the world kould be a poor peasant and our society would rather chew on the words of a materially wealthy vakant fool. But you, you sir, get to choose if you will participate in that.”
“I just... I expected so much more.”
“And while you are disappointed bekause of how you decided to measure yourself against your fellow man, you are cheating yourself of the full joy of the experience you are living — your experience. These are all choices, something you may want to akcept.”
“I guess,” was his reply.
Too much? I held bak, keeping it simple and he klearly does not find himself in need of what I have to offer. I stand to leave and walk elsewhere.
“Why do you do it? Why do you work at that coffee shop with...you know, with all your money?”
“Money? No, I have nothing and all I need. I am a simple man with simple needs.”
“A buddy of mine said you’re one of the owners of the sandwich shop chain he works at.”
“Teknikally, it kould be true. It might be true, but... It’s another man’s business.”
“Yeah, he said they put money into your account every month and that you don’t touch it?”
This man did not happen upon me by fate’s gentle, manipulative hand. He sought me out and knows more about one aspekt of my tangled life than I know myself!
“Yes, and I lived on a beautiful kompound until I felt the need to answer some questions within and wandered away to live on the streets. All me. All the same man. How would you like to define me? Know how I define myself? Me!”
I began to walk away when the man felt the need to klose the deal only he knew he was negotiating. “Come into business with me! Open a restaurant with me. I’ll make you rich! Richer!!”
I paused and turned to look at him. I offered my final words to him and a smile: “You did not hear a word I said. The wealth I seek does not arise from material possessions, but praktice of purpose within. In fakt, I find material wealth to be an obstakle to gaining real wealth — the wealth of the self. Fate’s an ugly demon, putting you here to test me.”
“What are you talking about? Can we be partners?”
Walking away, I walked around on the grass of the park until he left, then returned for some peace and rest and relaxation.
Money? Akkount? He must be a konfused man. Even if it were true, it is not something I need right now, for I have all of the material possessions I desire. In fakt, I may have too much. Anything more than two pillow kases worth is too much. I am going to have to throw some stuff away tonight.
__
Two children stand before their parents. Knowing their final breaths are near, the parents want their children to know that they have left them their estate in equal shares, but that they will have to sort out what items are worth so they can divide fairly.
One child looks at the parents and says, “You need to change what you have done and leave everything to my sibling.”
The parents look at one another confused. One said on behalf of both, “Child, you have so little and your sibling already has so much?”
“Yes, but I am far wealthier.”
“How can this be, child, you seem to have almost nothing?”
“I have all I need and everything I desire. She never will.”
Why are there so may people here on a weekday in the middle of the afternoon? Does not everyone need a meaningless menial job to waste away the long moments of their life?
People kongregate in groups. Heading toward a void, I found a seat in the fresh green grass and stripped my feet of all attire. Life was as it should be...which it always is.
With plenty of space available in the void, it appeared insulated from kontakt with my fellow man — foe or otherwise. Of kourse, one of the many hands of fate had other plans for he of thee.
“Hey,” the bald man said as he set unkomfortably klose to thy beingness.
I nodded my head at him then returned my gaze to my beautiful naked feet rubbing against the blades of grass.
“What’s up?” baldy asked.
Leave me alone! my mind on edge shouted, knowing I was here to find a little peace. My friendly mouth said nothing of the mind’s words and offered only a smile.
The tortured soul began again. “I come here to relax, same as you.”
I moved my head in a oval motion, allowing him to interpret as he wished.
“I know what you mean,” he offered.
Mean? I meant nothing! Literally nothing! He is not leaving. Fuking hand of fate fliking me, knowing I kan’t eskape, knowing I am on edge.
“It’s a beautiful place to relax, experience some quiet,” I plead optimistikally.
“Yeah, I come here to relax too.”
Then SHUT UP! the mind shouted, bloked by the kind and kompassionate lips, which kreated, “I know what you mean.”
There was a thump on the side of my head as the hand of fate fliked my skull with its middle finger.
“What you getting away from?” polished skalp asked.
“People,” I konfessed.
“I know what you mean.”
I feel it in my body as if I had just chugged a gallon of espresso — I AM ON EDGE! My body is vibrating from within as if I were skaling up to explode. And this man wants to talk...needs to talk? Deep breath. In through the nose...deep...fill the lungs...out through the mouth...breathe...slow...deep...
“You okay?” reflekto-skull asked.
I nodded as my breath slowly krossed my lips.
There was silence between us for a few minutes, but my mind would not rest. This stranger had been sent to me by that betraying beast fate, indifferent to my desires — or inspired by such, who kan know.
“How about you? How you doing today?”
“Alright...” he answered, his speech hesitating.
I klosed my eyes and stared into the sun, remembering with fondness how it was to be invisible when living on the streets.
Eventually the stranger finished his pause and kontinued his empty sentence with, “Alright, I guess. Do you ever feel like things just aren’t working out like they’re supposed to?”
NO!
Well, I say at times that I want purpose and I am not getting out of this without a konversation unless I start walking now, so...
They are exaktly as they must be, as ‘they are supposed to’ be, my mind explained, but that was not the konversation he was seeking. “Supposed to? I’m not sure I get what you mean.”
Moving kloser, he said, “Well, did you expect to be working at a coffee shop at your age?”
My age?!
Not sure how he knew where I worked, then I noticed I was wearing a kompany shirt. Not interested in having a konversation about me...not necessary. “You’re not happy with your job?”
“Not really. It’s fine, but not what I expected when I was younger. I feel like I’m going backwards and I work with people and customers aren’t that bright, some of them, and they are making 50 times what I make.”
Not going to ask what he does. Do not kare and not his issue, but it is the easy kommunikation kontinuation... No, unnecessary!
“I thought I’d have my own restaurant by now or at least be an executive chef somewhere. I’m not even a sous chef. I work for a caterer, not even my own catering business. I fucking cater!” the smooth krowned began to laugh maniakally after expressing his dissatisfaktion with his job title.
“I guess suggesting you find another job is not the answer?”
“No, dude, I don’t expect you to have the answer.”
“Right, bekause what would a fuking koffee maker know?” I snapped. Yep, ON-THE-EDGE.
“Dude, chill. I’m not putting down you being a barista, I...”
“Koffee maker. Barista is such a phony, bullshit term.”
“Okay,” he replied meekly, frightened.
“Kall me whatever you want, I am who I am whatever label you put on me or I put upon myself,” I barked.
“Got it.”
“Same applies to you! You are not your job, but if that is how you wish to define yourself, don’t be surprised when society does as well.”
“Okay, but...”
“But what?”
“But that is kinda what we do. Where I lived before I came here I was a sous chef on my way to becoming an executive chef. I was making a fair income, living fine. The wife and kids were all doing well. We were doing about as well as the rest of the community—everyone was pretty much comfortably middle-class. We move out here and there are a few distant really poor, a large, desperate middle-class trying to keep afloat keeping up with one another and a bunch of obscenely wealthy fucks. It’s like the bar has been elevated and I am losing ground. Know what I mean?”
“I do. You are envious of others.”
“No. No, no I am happy with my life, I just don’t want to drown. I want to do more!”
“Then get out of the water.”
Huh, his face exklaimed.
“If you’re drowning, get out of the water.”
The sun’s reflektion danced on his well polished head as he slowly tilted from side-to-side with a vakant look on his face. The silence is nice.
“Isn’t your head really hot?”
“Get out of the water? Wha... I don’t...”
“You don’t have to swim with the skhool.”
“School?”
“Skhool of fish. Just bekause the skhool — of fish — is swimming together... Look, you get to define your terms of sukcess, failure. If you want to use society’s — which it sounds like you do — find someone you admire and figure out how to bekome him.
“I don’t want to be someone else, I...”
“Then stop komplaining and feeling sorry for yourself.”
“Dude, chill. You need to chill, you’re sounding angry. Sorry for bothering you.”
“Bull...”
“What?”
“That’s bull. Look, you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”
“No, it’s cool.”
I was ready to choke this man to death. Is that why fate brought him to me in this moment? Am I to end his existence, his waste of a life? The breathing. I need to fokus on the breathing.
“I’m a little on edge. You seem like a nice enough ‘dude’ who’s in the midst of midlife krisis or whatever bekause you have not attained the status of material wealth you feel you should have and you’re not feeling great about yourself.”
“Between us, I feel like a complete loser...sometimes.”
“Join the klub.”
“You feel that way too?”
“Everyone feels that way at times. Though I would suggest you do not feel that way bekause of failed material pursuits. Every man and every woman is who they are bundled in their soft, pierceable flesh, whether their material possessions are absent or kopious. When you judge a man on his material wealth, you are prakticing envy. When you wish to be judged by your material wealth, you are saying that you have no substance, no real worth of kharakter, intelligence or personality. We live in a time when the wisest man in the world kould be a poor peasant and our society would rather chew on the words of a materially wealthy vakant fool. But you, you sir, get to choose if you will participate in that.”
“I just... I expected so much more.”
“And while you are disappointed bekause of how you decided to measure yourself against your fellow man, you are cheating yourself of the full joy of the experience you are living — your experience. These are all choices, something you may want to akcept.”
“I guess,” was his reply.
Too much? I held bak, keeping it simple and he klearly does not find himself in need of what I have to offer. I stand to leave and walk elsewhere.
“Why do you do it? Why do you work at that coffee shop with...you know, with all your money?”
“Money? No, I have nothing and all I need. I am a simple man with simple needs.”
“A buddy of mine said you’re one of the owners of the sandwich shop chain he works at.”
“Teknikally, it kould be true. It might be true, but... It’s another man’s business.”
“Yeah, he said they put money into your account every month and that you don’t touch it?”
This man did not happen upon me by fate’s gentle, manipulative hand. He sought me out and knows more about one aspekt of my tangled life than I know myself!
“Yes, and I lived on a beautiful kompound until I felt the need to answer some questions within and wandered away to live on the streets. All me. All the same man. How would you like to define me? Know how I define myself? Me!”
I began to walk away when the man felt the need to klose the deal only he knew he was negotiating. “Come into business with me! Open a restaurant with me. I’ll make you rich! Richer!!”
I paused and turned to look at him. I offered my final words to him and a smile: “You did not hear a word I said. The wealth I seek does not arise from material possessions, but praktice of purpose within. In fakt, I find material wealth to be an obstakle to gaining real wealth — the wealth of the self. Fate’s an ugly demon, putting you here to test me.”
“What are you talking about? Can we be partners?”
Walking away, I walked around on the grass of the park until he left, then returned for some peace and rest and relaxation.
Money? Akkount? He must be a konfused man. Even if it were true, it is not something I need right now, for I have all of the material possessions I desire. In fakt, I may have too much. Anything more than two pillow kases worth is too much. I am going to have to throw some stuff away tonight.
__
Two children stand before their parents. Knowing their final breaths are near, the parents want their children to know that they have left them their estate in equal shares, but that they will have to sort out what items are worth so they can divide fairly.
One child looks at the parents and says, “You need to change what you have done and leave everything to my sibling.”
The parents look at one another confused. One said on behalf of both, “Child, you have so little and your sibling already has so much?”
“Yes, but I am far wealthier.”
“How can this be, child, you seem to have almost nothing?”
“I have all I need and everything I desire. She never will.”
Posted by: Captain Forehead
There was an old woman whom I watched walk the streets with her husband and tiny dog when I first began crushing coffee beans for flavor extraction. The old man would pick up trash while she wrangled the dog. Now the picture exists without her husband.
Remembering what the woman ordered on the rare occasion she came in and had something, I made her usual and brought it out to her as she slowly passed the establishment, picking up the trash of others as her husband had before her.
“Ma’am,” I offered.
Stopping, she tilted her head and gave me a look of confusion.
“You have not been by in a while and I thought...” I spoke, then extended the cup.
“Thank you,” she answered, accepting the beverage.
She appeared appreciative. I wanted to ask about her husband, but the emptiness on her face seemed to say enough. I did not know the details, whether he was alive and ill or had died, but it was clear she missed her husband.
“Stop by sometime. It’s regulars like you that make work worth coming to,” I lied, because that was not the reason I came to work, why any of us showed up for work.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Another awkward pause. Then I verbally puked: “How is your husband? Haven’t seen him walking with you in a while.”
“He died,” she said slowly in a heavy, empty whisper. “He wasn’t very healthy for a long time. That’s why we walked, to get him healthier.”
“I’m sorry,” were the only words that did not appear inappropriate...yet so inadequate.
“I miss him,” she said, her eyes glazing over as tears swelled.
What does one say in such situations...
“Thank you,” she said anxiously and turned and walked away, her perky, peppy dog leading the way. She stopped and bent to pick up the trash of others.
Standing, watching the old woman clean up the filth of the filth, making the world a better place, one cannot help but feel a bit of joy for her lucky husband; whatever happened in his life, he was truly loved, is truly loved, and missed. Not by the dog skipping over the plants to mark his territory, but by the woman with whom he shared his life, by someone who really knew him.
To be loved by a good person who intimately knows you suggests that you have been on the side of good, no matter how imperfect your life may have been. Even in death, it would appear that he is lucky man.
Watching the woman pick up trash as she walked the street, remembering her husband at her side, makes you realize the calm, quiet of good will persevere, cleaning the rude, indifference of the filth without complaint.
The measure of a man is marked by the memories he leaves.
Remembering what the woman ordered on the rare occasion she came in and had something, I made her usual and brought it out to her as she slowly passed the establishment, picking up the trash of others as her husband had before her.
“Ma’am,” I offered.
Stopping, she tilted her head and gave me a look of confusion.
“You have not been by in a while and I thought...” I spoke, then extended the cup.
“Thank you,” she answered, accepting the beverage.
She appeared appreciative. I wanted to ask about her husband, but the emptiness on her face seemed to say enough. I did not know the details, whether he was alive and ill or had died, but it was clear she missed her husband.
“Stop by sometime. It’s regulars like you that make work worth coming to,” I lied, because that was not the reason I came to work, why any of us showed up for work.
“Thank you,” she said again.
Another awkward pause. Then I verbally puked: “How is your husband? Haven’t seen him walking with you in a while.”
“He died,” she said slowly in a heavy, empty whisper. “He wasn’t very healthy for a long time. That’s why we walked, to get him healthier.”
“I’m sorry,” were the only words that did not appear inappropriate...yet so inadequate.
“I miss him,” she said, her eyes glazing over as tears swelled.
What does one say in such situations...
“Thank you,” she said anxiously and turned and walked away, her perky, peppy dog leading the way. She stopped and bent to pick up the trash of others.
Standing, watching the old woman clean up the filth of the filth, making the world a better place, one cannot help but feel a bit of joy for her lucky husband; whatever happened in his life, he was truly loved, is truly loved, and missed. Not by the dog skipping over the plants to mark his territory, but by the woman with whom he shared his life, by someone who really knew him.
To be loved by a good person who intimately knows you suggests that you have been on the side of good, no matter how imperfect your life may have been. Even in death, it would appear that he is lucky man.
Watching the woman pick up trash as she walked the street, remembering her husband at her side, makes you realize the calm, quiet of good will persevere, cleaning the rude, indifference of the filth without complaint.
The measure of a man is marked by the memories he leaves.
Posted by: Captain Forehead
Forever ago was the time when a sleepless night was an opportunity to thrust good deep into the awaiting warm, moist crevice of a cruel world; not long enough ago, a sleepless night was when the biting cold night sky visited and gnawed, for no man sleeps peacefully amongst vagrants; tonight sleep is restlessness, the uneasiness security offers those who yearn to be free while constructing their cage from within. Without sleep, the whispers of insanity are carried by a strong wind to the welcoming embrace of confusion.
Tonight I do not sleep, but I am not interested in the world around either. I stare, looking for the darkness above to swallow me whole in one quick bite. The woman at my side breathes in the rest of her security so peacefully, but the calmness she shares is frightening. My thoughts follow her breath and ask why she gives me a sense of peace when I am with her and at what cost is this peace offered. Yet the calmness of her breath and the connection we have makes me feel this is where I belong, which make me think it is time to run into the unknown, welcoming arms of freedom. Sleep...please.
Thinking of the times when she has robbed me of all energy by draining every last drop of desire, I can smile and take her into the dimension of my mind — an alternate universe. I know this is not the fuel that keeps my occasionally throbbing passion for her burning, but it is the heat and I understand such desire. Love is such an absurd concept, a corruption of our ability to think, that I cannot accept its weighty imposition...even if in all of its recklessness it were the truth.
Perhaps I cannot sleep because I am ill... Yes, I am not of sound mind. The flu, perhaps. Sleep... I turn my head in the absolute darkness and look at what I cannot see, a woman I can hear breathe, and allow myself the absurd comfort of knowing her loving beauty is at my side.
Tonight I do not sleep, but I am not interested in the world around either. I stare, looking for the darkness above to swallow me whole in one quick bite. The woman at my side breathes in the rest of her security so peacefully, but the calmness she shares is frightening. My thoughts follow her breath and ask why she gives me a sense of peace when I am with her and at what cost is this peace offered. Yet the calmness of her breath and the connection we have makes me feel this is where I belong, which make me think it is time to run into the unknown, welcoming arms of freedom. Sleep...please.
Thinking of the times when she has robbed me of all energy by draining every last drop of desire, I can smile and take her into the dimension of my mind — an alternate universe. I know this is not the fuel that keeps my occasionally throbbing passion for her burning, but it is the heat and I understand such desire. Love is such an absurd concept, a corruption of our ability to think, that I cannot accept its weighty imposition...even if in all of its recklessness it were the truth.
Perhaps I cannot sleep because I am ill... Yes, I am not of sound mind. The flu, perhaps. Sleep... I turn my head in the absolute darkness and look at what I cannot see, a woman I can hear breathe, and allow myself the absurd comfort of knowing her loving beauty is at my side.
Posted by: Captain Forehead
After an evening of gorging on the delights of raw fish, sweet Nipponese beer and sake in the company of young and vibrant in mind, spirit and presence, the flesh bag containing the parts of thee within were being delivered to the humble abode of she who plays with the externally observable part of a man seen by few witnesses as me. It truly was an evening of freeing bliss.
The road crowded in this strange and busy part of town, it was a comfort to allow our dinner hosts to drive us around while me and the she I have found myself attached to often sat in the back seat watching the park we meander through pretend as if the city were not encroaching on the little space that remained. When I felt the gentle hand of my female friend rest upon my hand, I looked at her and smiled, but was jolted back to my observational ways when the vehicle abruptly stopped and the hand of fate as momentum shoved my body forward into the seat in front of my comfortable carrying spot.
“Sorry,” the young lass behind the wheel excused coyly.
“It’s fine,” her supportive young lover encouraged in reply. “You know how the drivers are around here.”
Yes, bad drivers abound in certain communities, due a great deal to the excessive urgency most everyone lives in their lives of significance. Like the park I have taken to observing, it was my act to appear unaffected by the encroaching madness. If the trees can ignore the chaotic concrete jungle, why can’t I?
“I don’t know if it was the increased radioactivity or what, but the hamachi was as good as any experienced on the shores of Nippon,” I offered to the hosts who had selected the fishy establishment.
Arriving at another of the stoplights placed every 53.6 feet, I was amazed that the good nature covering the park did not succumb to the incestuous noise, only wilting with delight in the face of the never ending chaos — of course, it could simply have been that they know of a time before man so expect a time without man. The noise grew, horns honking to push the pace of madness to a more desperate level.
There was a honk very near...then another. To stand in oblivion like the trees... Another honk caused the driver to stir.
“What’s wrong with him?!” the young woman asked in exasperation. “I can wait here forever,” she promised.
Looking over one of the shoulders that has always been with me to the car behind us, an anxious young man motioned for us to hurry along. With his angry, frantic gestures, her concern was well founded. I exited the vehicle on a goodwill mission.
Approaching the vehicle of concern, the driver began to wave me off. Tapping on the passenger’s side window — that was the side I was on and saw no wisdom in standing between two cars — I asked the frantic man a question of compassion: “The kind lady in front of you is concerned there might be something wrong. Are you alright?”
There was a great deal of movement about his mouth, but as he was strapped safely into a vehicle sealed for quiet comfort and luxury, I could hear nothing.
“I can’t hear you. Roll down your window,” I politely requested. The rapid shaking of his head from side-to-side in denial of my request was easily understood. So I began to tap on his window with a coin pulled from my pocket. He reacted.
The window rolled down less than an inch. I asked my question of concern again. His response did not directly address my concern regarding his health. “I have a fun! Get away before I shoot you!” he shouted, motioning as if he were going to retrieve something from under his seat.
Considering the kind of fun he may have under his seat — especially the shooting kind — I decided it best not to take time away from my hosts and play. And what if it was not sweet or chuckley fun but something more explosive? How does one deal with the threat of fun? Too new...
Not interested in discovering the veracity of his bluff based on the level of his fear, I was going to accept that he was as good as could be expected, but then he turned the car toward me and began to move. I stepped back and watched him drive around my waiting chariot by using the sidewalk as his private passageway.
Returning to the waiting few, a chorus of questions and concern ejaculated toward my way. I deciphered enough to answer, “Because you asked ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I went to relieve you of your concern.”
“That’s not what I meant! You know that!”
“No, I didn’t,” I answered, knowing that one can never truly know what one means — even if that one is the self.
There was some discussion regarding the sanity and righteousness of my actions, but I saw no need to participate, as what was done could not be undone and a grasp of understanding of the actions of others always leaves one seeking purpose of action wanting...and I was pondering the threat of being shot by fun.
“This unpredictability of yours is why we can’t go anywhere with people,” was whispered into my ear by the chewy sweet taste I hoped to gnaw.
I could not refrain. “Unpredictability? No, you mean the predictability that I will do something that makes others uncomfortable because it is not what they would do. Perhaps you could say it is unexpected, but not really unpredictable.”
“You know what I mean. You’re such an ass,” she whispered in her sweetest, quietest voice...giving a feint, blushing rise to arousal.
Her reply was absolutely as expected — 100% predictable.
Horns honk; tires squeal; people on their way to do important things bicker, but the tress stand tall, proud, peaceful, as if our manufactured chaos was quite insignificant. Uh, to be a tree...
The road crowded in this strange and busy part of town, it was a comfort to allow our dinner hosts to drive us around while me and the she I have found myself attached to often sat in the back seat watching the park we meander through pretend as if the city were not encroaching on the little space that remained. When I felt the gentle hand of my female friend rest upon my hand, I looked at her and smiled, but was jolted back to my observational ways when the vehicle abruptly stopped and the hand of fate as momentum shoved my body forward into the seat in front of my comfortable carrying spot.
“Sorry,” the young lass behind the wheel excused coyly.
“It’s fine,” her supportive young lover encouraged in reply. “You know how the drivers are around here.”
Yes, bad drivers abound in certain communities, due a great deal to the excessive urgency most everyone lives in their lives of significance. Like the park I have taken to observing, it was my act to appear unaffected by the encroaching madness. If the trees can ignore the chaotic concrete jungle, why can’t I?
“I don’t know if it was the increased radioactivity or what, but the hamachi was as good as any experienced on the shores of Nippon,” I offered to the hosts who had selected the fishy establishment.
Arriving at another of the stoplights placed every 53.6 feet, I was amazed that the good nature covering the park did not succumb to the incestuous noise, only wilting with delight in the face of the never ending chaos — of course, it could simply have been that they know of a time before man so expect a time without man. The noise grew, horns honking to push the pace of madness to a more desperate level.
There was a honk very near...then another. To stand in oblivion like the trees... Another honk caused the driver to stir.
“What’s wrong with him?!” the young woman asked in exasperation. “I can wait here forever,” she promised.
Looking over one of the shoulders that has always been with me to the car behind us, an anxious young man motioned for us to hurry along. With his angry, frantic gestures, her concern was well founded. I exited the vehicle on a goodwill mission.
Approaching the vehicle of concern, the driver began to wave me off. Tapping on the passenger’s side window — that was the side I was on and saw no wisdom in standing between two cars — I asked the frantic man a question of compassion: “The kind lady in front of you is concerned there might be something wrong. Are you alright?”
There was a great deal of movement about his mouth, but as he was strapped safely into a vehicle sealed for quiet comfort and luxury, I could hear nothing.
“I can’t hear you. Roll down your window,” I politely requested. The rapid shaking of his head from side-to-side in denial of my request was easily understood. So I began to tap on his window with a coin pulled from my pocket. He reacted.
The window rolled down less than an inch. I asked my question of concern again. His response did not directly address my concern regarding his health. “I have a fun! Get away before I shoot you!” he shouted, motioning as if he were going to retrieve something from under his seat.
Considering the kind of fun he may have under his seat — especially the shooting kind — I decided it best not to take time away from my hosts and play. And what if it was not sweet or chuckley fun but something more explosive? How does one deal with the threat of fun? Too new...
Not interested in discovering the veracity of his bluff based on the level of his fear, I was going to accept that he was as good as could be expected, but then he turned the car toward me and began to move. I stepped back and watched him drive around my waiting chariot by using the sidewalk as his private passageway.
Returning to the waiting few, a chorus of questions and concern ejaculated toward my way. I deciphered enough to answer, “Because you asked ‘What’s wrong with him?’ I went to relieve you of your concern.”
“That’s not what I meant! You know that!”
“No, I didn’t,” I answered, knowing that one can never truly know what one means — even if that one is the self.
There was some discussion regarding the sanity and righteousness of my actions, but I saw no need to participate, as what was done could not be undone and a grasp of understanding of the actions of others always leaves one seeking purpose of action wanting...and I was pondering the threat of being shot by fun.
“This unpredictability of yours is why we can’t go anywhere with people,” was whispered into my ear by the chewy sweet taste I hoped to gnaw.
I could not refrain. “Unpredictability? No, you mean the predictability that I will do something that makes others uncomfortable because it is not what they would do. Perhaps you could say it is unexpected, but not really unpredictable.”
“You know what I mean. You’re such an ass,” she whispered in her sweetest, quietest voice...giving a feint, blushing rise to arousal.
Her reply was absolutely as expected — 100% predictable.
Horns honk; tires squeal; people on their way to do important things bicker, but the tress stand tall, proud, peaceful, as if our manufactured chaos was quite insignificant. Uh, to be a tree...
Posted by: Captain Forehead
I feel I have seen enough and done enough to allow myself the possibility of being. The fight to be good, just, is not an embrace of perfection. I say this because I feel the clouds darken within as the need to explode with purpose begins to grow. Often the need is extinguished by the savoring and forceful kneading of sweetness, but that has not been the case as of late. Fate is brewing a purpose for the carrier of good.
Train. Expand the cauldron of rage; pull away from the fire.
10... 15... 20... The minutes mount. The watching of others in the gym as the muscles of might right are trained and drained...but darkness grows.
Beautiful sweet candy, stretching, working perfection in divinely revealing goodness. Balls of goo waddling around the room in hope of sticky sweet delightfulness, but doing little to reach such a pleasant and generous goal. Men training for battle, good and evil. Frightened boys as men, inflating themselves to scare off the world they so greatly fear. In the gym we find a cornucopia of citizenry still willing to dream and work for something more.
Push. Harder. Release the pressure the dark hand of fate builds within.
To be good does not mean to be perfect.
To wish to be perfect is not good.
A man crosses my view. The face is recognized. The eyes of justice lock, glaring. I have seen this man, heard stories of his vocal outbursts of violence threatened, always against women of age marked. Archie Ga, a woman called him, contemptuous of his treatment. Is this where the hand of fate wants dark justice?
Like the preparation of a meal, there is art in every battle. First, one must understand their opponent, and one who saves his rage and violent, threatening outbursts for elderly women is comfortably understood.
He turned away from the locked, until the moustached man with the tiny traumatized brain realized there was intent in the gaze — the slowness of this interpretation and reaction made it clear that the pebble in his head was there so he would make an entertaining rattling sound when shaken. He attempted intimidation by offering the look of a rabid dog, but when the face of justice’s pawn smirked and looked through him, he quickly turned away like a frightened chihuahua.
Let it go. His presence is too small.
But he is evil.
Tiny evil.
Evil.
Exercising, I kept eyes routinely fixed on Archie Ga’s Hitleresque moustache — and his eyes when he would find the courage to look the way of the wait. Dark clouds of discomfort began to clap with thunder as the miscreant of meaningless man began to pace in discomfort like cornered game. The aura, the look he exudes, cry for his destruction, as nature knows how to scent fate’s appetite.
There was little doubt he wished to come, confront, challenge what he saw threatening before him, but as dumb as he was he could still see that the foe that wantingly awaited his action was not an elderly woman.
The exercise continued, extended, but eventually had to come to an end, and though the cornered animal was frightened, he would not strike. It was time to leave. The hand of fate is preparing me for something special, but this nothing was just a gift for refining senses...I suppose.
I leave, approaching him, looking through his cowardly nothingness, and then he gives a gift.
“What you lookin’ at? I know you?”
Stopping before him, I look through him, offering no words. This is battle and there is no need to give your opponent ammunition, no matter how enjoyable. I keep quiet, staring, watching his uneasiness.
“What you been lookin’ at me like that for? I don’t know you. Do I?”
Silences. Stare. Move a couple of inches closer, slowly.
“Wha’chu doin’?”
What pleasure would be gifted if Archie Ga would take a swing in such a public venue. The rage that has been building for purpose could be freely expressed. Alas, he is a berater of weak, old women and will not strike the antithesis before him...no matter how much the strike is welcome. Yes, I could strike him with a righteous blow for an education in civility, but I do not wish to be carted away by cleaners of laws randomly applied. Another time in a private place, perhaps... No, gleefully and joyfully, but not now. As much as I wish to do otherwise, I remain silent, hoping he will defy his nature for a moment and strike...yet, I am still not an elderly woman.
“Fuckin’ puto!” he shouts, gesturing with his hands as he walks away.
What can one do but laugh at his absurd existence.
Mustache freezes. There it is, all over his face. He wants to attack. The rage is making him pulse violently. His frightened heart wants to attack, but his cowardly mind refrains. His eyes ablaze, it is clear he wishes to burn me alive. His teeth grind, desperate to tear at my flesh. If I were an elderly woman, I would be dead within a couple of violent minutes. In fact, his rage is so consuming, he might actually attack if I were a slight young woman. Still, standing before him was a man, laughing at the charade of a pretend, empty man hidden behind the machismo of a Hitleresque moustache.
It is necessary. I laugh again, chuckling in hope.
The moustache turned and walked away. There was no doubt a small — probably elderly — woman was going to receive the rage his cowardly soul of evil could not muster for a man his physical match.
The darkness within swirled. I saw the hands of good around his neck, slowly squeezing the evil out of him as he cried and pleaded for another breath. He walked away, but my mind saw something more. The fact that he fell to the ground was coincidental; he must have tripped over something.
It was time to leave. It was the only way the mind would release the worthless man’s neck.
Fate, I don’t understand your ways, but I trust.
Train. Expand the cauldron of rage; pull away from the fire.
10... 15... 20... The minutes mount. The watching of others in the gym as the muscles of might right are trained and drained...but darkness grows.
Beautiful sweet candy, stretching, working perfection in divinely revealing goodness. Balls of goo waddling around the room in hope of sticky sweet delightfulness, but doing little to reach such a pleasant and generous goal. Men training for battle, good and evil. Frightened boys as men, inflating themselves to scare off the world they so greatly fear. In the gym we find a cornucopia of citizenry still willing to dream and work for something more.
Push. Harder. Release the pressure the dark hand of fate builds within.
To be good does not mean to be perfect.
To wish to be perfect is not good.
A man crosses my view. The face is recognized. The eyes of justice lock, glaring. I have seen this man, heard stories of his vocal outbursts of violence threatened, always against women of age marked. Archie Ga, a woman called him, contemptuous of his treatment. Is this where the hand of fate wants dark justice?
Like the preparation of a meal, there is art in every battle. First, one must understand their opponent, and one who saves his rage and violent, threatening outbursts for elderly women is comfortably understood.
He turned away from the locked, until the moustached man with the tiny traumatized brain realized there was intent in the gaze — the slowness of this interpretation and reaction made it clear that the pebble in his head was there so he would make an entertaining rattling sound when shaken. He attempted intimidation by offering the look of a rabid dog, but when the face of justice’s pawn smirked and looked through him, he quickly turned away like a frightened chihuahua.
Let it go. His presence is too small.
But he is evil.
Tiny evil.
Evil.
Exercising, I kept eyes routinely fixed on Archie Ga’s Hitleresque moustache — and his eyes when he would find the courage to look the way of the wait. Dark clouds of discomfort began to clap with thunder as the miscreant of meaningless man began to pace in discomfort like cornered game. The aura, the look he exudes, cry for his destruction, as nature knows how to scent fate’s appetite.
There was little doubt he wished to come, confront, challenge what he saw threatening before him, but as dumb as he was he could still see that the foe that wantingly awaited his action was not an elderly woman.
The exercise continued, extended, but eventually had to come to an end, and though the cornered animal was frightened, he would not strike. It was time to leave. The hand of fate is preparing me for something special, but this nothing was just a gift for refining senses...I suppose.
I leave, approaching him, looking through his cowardly nothingness, and then he gives a gift.
“What you lookin’ at? I know you?”
Stopping before him, I look through him, offering no words. This is battle and there is no need to give your opponent ammunition, no matter how enjoyable. I keep quiet, staring, watching his uneasiness.
“What you been lookin’ at me like that for? I don’t know you. Do I?”
Silences. Stare. Move a couple of inches closer, slowly.
“Wha’chu doin’?”
What pleasure would be gifted if Archie Ga would take a swing in such a public venue. The rage that has been building for purpose could be freely expressed. Alas, he is a berater of weak, old women and will not strike the antithesis before him...no matter how much the strike is welcome. Yes, I could strike him with a righteous blow for an education in civility, but I do not wish to be carted away by cleaners of laws randomly applied. Another time in a private place, perhaps... No, gleefully and joyfully, but not now. As much as I wish to do otherwise, I remain silent, hoping he will defy his nature for a moment and strike...yet, I am still not an elderly woman.
“Fuckin’ puto!” he shouts, gesturing with his hands as he walks away.
What can one do but laugh at his absurd existence.
Mustache freezes. There it is, all over his face. He wants to attack. The rage is making him pulse violently. His frightened heart wants to attack, but his cowardly mind refrains. His eyes ablaze, it is clear he wishes to burn me alive. His teeth grind, desperate to tear at my flesh. If I were an elderly woman, I would be dead within a couple of violent minutes. In fact, his rage is so consuming, he might actually attack if I were a slight young woman. Still, standing before him was a man, laughing at the charade of a pretend, empty man hidden behind the machismo of a Hitleresque moustache.
It is necessary. I laugh again, chuckling in hope.
The moustache turned and walked away. There was no doubt a small — probably elderly — woman was going to receive the rage his cowardly soul of evil could not muster for a man his physical match.
The darkness within swirled. I saw the hands of good around his neck, slowly squeezing the evil out of him as he cried and pleaded for another breath. He walked away, but my mind saw something more. The fact that he fell to the ground was coincidental; he must have tripped over something.
It was time to leave. It was the only way the mind would release the worthless man’s neck.
Fate, I don’t understand your ways, but I trust.
