He exits the bus with a jingle in his jangle, feels vibrantly the dawning of the new day. 7:29am and all is momentarily right with the world. He is wearing his worn leather jacket and nice fitting corduroys and feels all eyes on him. He is magnetic this morning, unstoppably attractive and filled to the brim with energy; the simple and indefatigable energy that is the humming singularity at the swirling, fiery, galactic heart of love and creation. He is overcome, as happens often and without warning, by the batshit crazy knowledge that the human animal is a screwy diamond in the cosmos, an unlikely miracle of math and happenstance. He is sufficiently overcome to want to represent. He lopes jauntily in the direction of his office building on the university campus, surrounded by the ant-farm largesse of the fabulous, hope-filled students on their lovely bicycles and skateboards, swarming to and fro, even at this hour, in their exalting search for knowledge and truth and goodness in this crazy-quilt world. In a spasm of ecstatic joie! he swings his pliable lunchbox on its nylon strap; Mary Tyler Moore strutting with newfound, purse-hurling confidence down the thronged boulevards of Minneapolis. When he joyously swings his strapped lunchbox full circle the unzipped top flap opens obligingly and two Pyrex® bowls somersault lazily out and up into the chill morning air, red plastic lids lifting, contents arcing outward in a lumpen clotted Dali stream of soup and Yellow No. 5-painted faux egg product and liberated soy crumbs and a much-washed clear plastic fork. The saddened bowls describe a painfully grand parabola and drop like slow-motion deadweights, shattering grotesquely in a wet beige cloud of bargain canned crap onto the previously beloved sidewalk in front of his building. Students stop their pedaling, straddling their bikes to glare in astonishment. In the utter stillness that descends like a smothering blanket he realizes with horror that he is wearing corduroy.
Published by jef
The blood thrumming around the still-point of this light headache can be traced back to the first rain. That is, our blood just sort of drifts, like smoke, through time; with stops in the Cambrian, the Renaissance and so on. It’s an impenetrable, infinitely-layered heap of unknowing. Okay? (sighs) Yeah The World (as it’s called) is a hopeless lucid dream, but not the kind where you can leap off a building, flap your arms and take joyous id-flight. It’s the kind where you show up for just long enough to see yourself in a mirror and Know that You are Here. That apparently necessary bit of business having been addressed, thermodynamics or some other such fancy idiot enters with a tea towel over its forearm, takes you politely by the gnarled elbow and ushers you back into the soil, where the mostly irritating Circle of Life awaits to make of you a tree, then a shoebox, then wet mush in a landfill again. Bring me my slippers! Oh…never mind. But I’m not here to philosophishizzle. We’re doomed animals at the momentary top of a food chain of no eternal consequence. It feels like. That’s not meant to be a downer. Bacharach sprang from the Ur-ooze, so that recommends the place. Let us celebrate our moment in the hum de dum dum de dum de de de dum dum. View all posts by jef