Your winking eye,
Your bold face,
The selfish clouds conceal them both.
One above the other,
Constant,
Yet sometimes unseen.
Our faces upturned,
Basking in your majestic presence,
Feeling your lonesome surety.
Silence and life,
Constant and uncaring,
We wait and wait,
Lost.
The day was hot and filled with windless blue skies. An overheating Leonard was walking on a pedestrian path at the most merciless hour. He was wearing a white undershirt and green cargo shorts. The shirt stuck to his chest like a second skin so that he had to keep peeling it away in order for cooling air to penetrate. It seemed like Leonard was the only person fool enough to be walking outside at this time. But little choice was left to him. His pounding heart was his only company. And nagging, worrisome company it was. In the distance, cars roared by at impossible speeds. The wind carried their sound to his ears: a hodge-podge of confusing, yet unmistakably human noise. Through it all was the omnipresent whir of their passing. That was the common denominator. The air itself parted before the sleek machines. Despite himself, Leonard felt a wave of envy overtake him.
His progress was slow, and he tried not to think of the great distance still ahead of him. His sneakers made dull sounds as they beat upon the dark asphalt. He felt weak, as if every step was a step in the wrong direction. All life-giving energies had abandoned him; he was no more than a sweating corpse walking upright in hell. An empty stomach, a nagging heart, a parched mouth, a dull soul. This was not the world of success and contentment he had always envisioned. The sun’s light had illuminated his self-deception, and Leonard had no choice but to sweat the illusion away.
The mountain’s stone face impassively watched him from the east displaying neither triumph nor sympathy. The harsh, magnificent rock was a selfish despot. It cared for nothing but itself. Risen from the stale dirt, it towered upward-a monument to power. At this time, Leonard dearly wished for the aura of power to enshroud his confidence. For Leonard knew that power inspires confidence, that confidence and power beget strength, and that all three makes one a man.
Leonard plodded onward. A great thirst had come over him. His eyes were half shut, and his mouth lolled open like a tired dog’s. His steps were no longer even, and he began to weave left and right like a drunkard. Sunburned and exhausted, he searched for a trace of shade. He found shimmering heat waves instead. Weak and dismayed, he sat down where he stood. He had not the will to walk any further. He sat there with his head buried in his arms for quite some time. He sat there waiting for change. He sat there waiting for power.
Time passed uneventfully. He heard his mother’s voice again and again in his deranged head quoting her idol, Henry Ford: “Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right.” Leonard’s mother held a strange obsession for the deceased industrialist. And, since she was such a large benefactor in the Ford dynasty, it was hardly surprising. Her family had been involved with the Ford Motor Company from its earliest days.
So it struck her hard when Leonard announced that he wished to detach himself from the Ford tradition and seek out the newness in life. This was the worst sort of blasphemy Leonard could commit. His mother pleaded with him, but Leonard was adamant. He was liberal; she was staunchly conservative. Eventually, they reached a hostile stalemate: neither wished to speak to the other. Over time, the disappointed mother fell deathly ill but not before she’d had Leonard’s name stricken from her will. She died without reconciliation. And now her blasted slogans were haunting Leonard at the most unwanted time.
“Don't find fault, find a remedy; anybody can complain,” his mother intoned. Another quote from that devil man. They were such a bore. “When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it,” his mother continued. Leonard wondered whether or not she had had a single original thought in her entire life. He believed his mother had been utterly brainwashed by Ford’s priggish and outdated optimism. Ford’s words were the words of a mechanical mind; one bent upon progress alone. Leonard had had enough of it. For now, he was smugly content to openly indulge in apathy, self-pity, and cynicism beneath the grimacing sun.
And, interestingly enough, it seemed to be working. He felt himself gaining the strength to stand once again. It was a bitter strength, and there was power in it. It was a brittle sort of confidence that straightened his back and lifted his gaze to challenge the horizon. He stared it down with a knowing scoff. His heart beat acid; he exhaled flame. He was no longer human. He was above human. His negativity had granted him a detached invulnerability. Dark energy flowed through his veins like adrenaline, electrifying in its intensity. There was promise and mystery in this black motivation. Leonard felt hellishly supreme.
He started walking again, but this time with a deadly spring in his step. His pace began to quicken. Something was urging him onward. Faster, faster he walked. The world blurred around him as his legs pumped him forward.
Leonard had begun to run.
Playing The Rivieras over and over again.
The music takes me on a journey.
My own little
I can taste the sea breeze,
Bask in the humidity,
Experience the palm trees.
My own little
I see the people on the beach.
Out there a-havin’ fun.
With their bleach blonde hair and sun-baked bodies.
The god-like women.
Running, sunning, swimming, walking.
My own little
I hear the street performers,
Moving and diverse.
Mysterious, imaginative.
My own little
The haven of my dreams.
Sparked by outdated tunes.
Pleasant, innocent, carefree.
My own little
Simply attainable,
Such peace and love.
The stove is on,
The liquid is heating.
It may take awhile,
For the burner is low.
But steam is beginning to rise,
And the heat is incessant.
Will no one turn off the stove?
Are the chefs reckless children?
The temperature is building,
Can’t you sense it?
Building and building.
Hear the hiss,
Newly audible,
Emanate from the pot.
How long can we ignore it,
Bubbling as it is,
In the back of our minds,
To overflow at worst possible time?
For God’s sake,
Turn off the stove,
Before the liquid explodes,
And scalds us all!
The chinks in human character subtly become cracks and may gradually widen with time. The human cultivates his own corruption. The dark line is drawn on development’s pavement; we have only to step across.
Yet the question is posed: is corruption negative? Is the flawless character necessarily perfect? Or is there some virtue in delving down into the world’s dregs and emerging once again into the judgmental sun?
The experienced and reformed character is the strongest. Those whose walls have been breached know where to shore up extra supports. Yet the reformed character is a rare breed. Like plagued rats in a fortress, corruption lodges itself in unseen areas and only comes out in the mind’s night. The reformed character must be a willing and able exterminator.
The untempered character is weak and malleable. Unanswered questions will always lurk in his dreams. His hut is built on sand, and a gust of wind may blow it down. But, at the moment, it is ignorantly free of disease.
Both types have their flaws.
The untempered character cannot possibly expect to persist in his purity for he is forced by his inexperience to ponder the world. This is shown by the rampant pedophilia of the priestly class. Man is a worldly creature, nothing more.
The reformed character is rare to the point of unreality. His experience is his temptation and often leads to his downfall.
Through the peephole,
Reality is skewed.
Through the peephole,
Suspicion ignites.
Through the peephole,
With rounded vision.
Through the peephole,
A life untouched.
Through the peephole,
Safety lies.
Through the peephole,
With one open eye.
Through the peephole,
Tiny as it is.
Through the peephole,
The day is curved.
Through the peephole,
To glimpse the sun.
Through the peephole,
A shelter unwon.
