In my perfect ending, I’ll be driving on a freshly paved road in the wilderness, top down, wind in our hair as the sun beats down, destination nearly upon us, as the HD stereo plays our song. If this were an urban setting, the sun would be bright, each stoplight would be green, the GHGs couldn’t reach us and the architecture would be utopian all around. However, if you listen to the lyrics, listen closely to the lyrics, you’ll notice they speak of dead ends and desperation, bad luck and unhappy endings. He can’t take his job and shove it, because he has no job to shove, and if not for bad luck, he’d have no luck at all.
The alternative perfect ending, Dante’s Eternal Salvation style, would be a Republican congressman from Texas dying of a communicable disease that could easily have been avoided, and denying it until the end. You can’t pay your bills with someone else’s misery, but someone’s misery can be the key to your happiness. This is one horse that didn’t escape from the glue factory and Dante would be smiling, wherever he is, perhaps sitting next to the former congressman from Texas at the evening entertainment, and unable to stop gloating, for the headline act was Do Not Resuscitate. Or are they the house band.
I have not much more to say, but equally a lot more to say:
“It’s soooo great to hear from you,” she said, but her words were not sincere. I thought she was different but she was the average of everyone else. We might not ever speak again, and I won’t mind, because I’ve forgotten her name already. It took me less than 10 years to realize that she had been humoring me.
Meanwhile, the person who scolded me is no longer with us, is no longer alive, and that should cheer me up. But it doesn’t, because what about the other one? Hopefully as soon as possible.
I took a break, a long break, and walked upstairs to my archives. In the days before digital video compression, consumers oblivious of the future would take photos from analogue cameras and have their film developed in genuine darkrooms. Correspondents would write letters on tangible paper with pens filled with tangible ink. I opened the closet, closed my eyes and pointed to a spot. There, this is the paper grocery bag full of photos I’ll examine this afternoon. The third and most noteworthy was of a relative in the kitchen that I had surprised with my Instamatic. However, I was in such a habit of springing upon household members with this small device that she continued as if I was mainly part of the woodwork. She would not speak or gasp out of mock surprise and therefore I fashioned an alternative caption.
“I took this opportunity to make dumplings in my kitchen.”
And she did.
A wooden Royal Jamaica cigar box attracted my attention and it was full of summertime photos of the year that mattered, when decisions had to be made that would affect the rest of our lives. It would be decades before the Seers would have enough information to rule upon whether these decisions were the right or wrong ones. The weekend took us to Fire Island, during the days of true innocence, when and where acquaintances such as Scotty could let their hair down on Malibu Party Night, give free rein to their lifestyles and enjoy themselves, before their worlds changed for the worst in seemingly a split second. Were he and his crew there that weekend as well? It seemed he had lived a full life, well he had from the postcards and the stories. It is too late and it is never too late. This is my goodbye.
They were the best days of our lives
They should have been
If we only knew
We felt they were not good times
We were worried about the future
We atoned for the past
If we only knew
And so we beat on …
And so it goes, and so it goes on
And the meaning of life is fun, good times and great oldies.
In the distance was a clan of four, two of whom were young children roaming free and wild, venturing toward the water and venturing toward the edge of the woods, as far away from parental oversight as permission would allow. They daydreamed of ensnaring butterflies and dragonflies inside a jar but dragonflies they only come out at night. The mother and father were perched upright and tensed, alternating between taking in the waves and the fair-weather clouds, and keeping a watchful eye on the children, but wishing they were living the life.
When can I stop caring and when will I realize I don’t have to feel guilty any more? When will I get there?
This is when.
When I let go and there’s no one below, and it won’t matter to me whether I fall or not.