Bedrock

At my friends birthday party a man was singing a song about the time in a person's life when one realizes they aren't going to be famous and change the world in some big way. He sang how it's a time of disappointment, maybe sadness.

In my own life I remember this moment and how it brought on disappointment and the feeling of shrinking into unimportance. But it's evolved into something different. Not that I don't still have my moments of wanting to create with word or picture, a life of influence in the world. But now I think about all who have passed before, tens of thousands of years worth of people. People most of which were and are completely forgotten.

So when I visualize my passing, what it means, will mean to others, etc, etc. I think this: That which is remembered is built on the back of that which is not. We the forgotten, cover this earth from one end to the next. We are the bedrock that holds the built up memories of the so very few. So it's OK to be the dust in a box whose grave stone no longer stands.

Complaints

You're rustling through the park like old dry leaves again. It's not even Fall but here you are in the wind, pushing along the sidewalk. And even though you sound like a lonely, scraping leaf, you will always remind me of early summer.

Regardless of the ragged hole I believed you tore into me after walking away, when you conveniently forgot to untie all those lovely little heart strings I tied to you. Or, tied to what I made up about you. I still see you with dog by your side watching, waiting impatiently as I soak up your image like a photo, to save for a near future in which you will be no more.

I was always terrified by my premonition of my loss of you. You were gold you see, I coveted the immense newness of my wealth, knowing I would lose it all when the market of your affections plummeted. I thought to jump from a window, leaving a note with my Secretary saying, "Send word to my stockbroker, I've jumped in spite."


You've hidden so much of yourself inside your ever thinking mind. Stretching wide, you fill yourself full of words that all eventually come together in a scheme that will always leave me feeling hungry for more of something you only gave sparingly.

Despite my complaints you will always hold such a massive if not horrific acreage in my life. Because of the few gems you gave, I made you an epic masterpiece. And I have written about you before as I have now and no story really describes the immensity as I know it, nor will the 10th, 20th or 33rd story I write after this.

Maybe when I die I will become a transparent glob of ectoplasm carrying stories told by emotion and image, if this is so I will try to play myself like a movie reel for the pleasure of those who would like to feel what my brief wealth was like. But I can't imagine any of the stories ever ending without the audio of old dry, rustling leaves.

lonelier than normal

I touched myself like a lover, not in the way you may be thinking. I brushed my hand down my stomach, to my waist then hip. For a moment I thought I was somewhere else, someone else. I was being touched and surprised by my own hand. It's been so long since another person has reached for me with intentions thus and now I feel alone, knowing how lonely I am.

oily dark bears

I drove the ragged car over the jagged and jutted tracks made by big burly trucks, cycles and what have yous. I crashed just before the far hill that I couldn't keep my eyes off of no matter what was right in front of me.

I wanted my tank car to spill it's oil all over the jagged and jutted tracks so I would need to creak open my battered door and walk in my flip flops through the beautiful brambles, milk weed and black and blue berries.

I could stumble upon a oily dark bear, startled by my human thrashing. I would stand there staring at my potential death and think, "I'm supposed to lie down and pretend I'm dead so that I may not die." I would wonder which is better, to die pretending to already be dead or to die standing in witness, this bear threatening in it's bear way with growls and whatever sounds it makes before it eats something or decides to walk away.

I could experience the end of either the encounter or my life. I would stand there waiting for a terrible pain, for nothing or for everything. Laid out on some life platter of decisions I would stand there feeling very alive and none of it would matter either way the bear chose to act. Out of hunger or disinterest, this thing, life, would inevitably stumble on with me as I am or as I am not. And maybe in a week or two someone would find my flip flops and wonder why someone would leave their shoes there.