WHARVED

Thin Air

When a brand new idea greets you–
out of what seems to be thin air–
it feels as though you’ve just
brought a new child into this world.
It’s an uncanny record of your existence
that has the opportunity
to be perpetuated for generations.

Trousers

I didn’t put on a belt today, even though my trusted toad in residence screamed at me, “please do wear something that will hold up your trousers, you know how much you need that kind of support.” That kind of support. That kind of support. The statement cut to my core. How could a simple amphibian surmise how using such obviously leading language would end up with such a visceral reaction? I must concede that he has been with me for most of my adult life, a fact that I tend to overlook in my times of angst. He just has this way of seeing how my psyche copes with everyday life and the human-to-human disappointments that never fail to pile up when I venture outside of my hovel. Yeah, I’ll chalk it up to that.

Not one to quickly withdraw into self-pity (it usually takes a few minutes), I shot back. “Bah, you old-fashioned reptile! I rather enjoy a somewhat droopy trouser. It’s not my intention to be lumped in with the old fogies of the world, thank you very much. You know as well as I that I tend to shuffle my feet and speak in an exasperated tone about how things aren’t the way they used to be. Don’t rob me of my freedom of expression!” I called him a reptile, knowing full well that his species spawns in water. I’d recently taken to jabbing him with barbs designed to rock his steady demeanor. He has never once taken the bait. The cold-blooded bastard.

“Well sir, have you ever considered being the individual who brings belts back in style? Perhaps even suspenders? Your species really relishes bringing fashion back after an arbitrary period of time has passed, and maybe this time you can be the one to inspire the young men and women of the world that trousers sitting comfortably upon the waist are truly the change that they’d wish they started clamoring for, had they known someone of your immense tastemaking abilities.”

Speechless. Just speechless. That blasted earth-toned hopper had me stymied once again as I hiked up my pants for what must have been the twentieth time since making an excuse to “get fresh air” around the neighborhood (mainly for the purposes of people watching and escaping my inner turmoil as much as possible). I’m still confounded to this day as to how a little guy like him–with such a tiny little brain–could be my intellectual better. Oh well, no use in beating myself up… I think.

Perception

We come upon a young man torn between what he perceives of “the other” and that omniscient narrator of life who’s commonly referred to as Reality, the amalgamation of infinite facets colliding into an image of total clarity, the entire spectrum condensing itself into a single voice and vision suitable to whichever moment or viewpoint happens to summon it for selfish purposes. Our hero simply needs more time before he may contemplate the oneness of totality, the complete integration of energy and matter that, on the surface, fragments into a myriad of complex differences but ultimately bleeds into homogeneity across the board, across the cosmos. Our hero will learn all this in the next unit of his “Philosophy of Everything” course, assuming he does all the readings and attends every lecture (which has a very low chance of actually occurring, rendering his education on the topic woefully incomplete).

This particular person will–in 98.3% of all observable realities–stubbornly quit his pursuit of higher education and become a beekeeper, so he may develop an immunity to their stings.

Meditation: Park

A discarded leaf has curled itself into the shape of a cannoli boat, its stem sticking straight up, a rudder that will never make contact with water (assuming it ever makes its way out of this landlocked region). Right now it sits on one of a multitude of 2’x2′ paving tiles, standing mostly stationary despite a sturdy breeze that would like nothing more than to knock it a couple squares over (if you were to assign the human trait of desire to an elementary force of nature, and, let’s face it, we all do it from time to time (some of us more frequently, allowing it to invade the daily rhythms encompassing us)). Time becomes magnified as the breeze maintains its pressure but the leaf stubbornly holds its position. All the while, a steady flux of spent leaves descends onto the tiles, though none quite as tubular as our unmovable friend–oh wait, there it goes. One tile over, a move suitable for a king.

Mag Mille

Mindfully traversing Michigan Avenue on a Monday afternoon means encountering a dizzying array of points along the human spectrum, details your average commuter may ignore or just miss altogether as they continue along their quest for a life worth living easier–easier than what, I’ll never know.

An elderly lady relegated to a wheelchair wears a sour puss as she munches on a processed snack still halfway-ensconced in its wrapper. Two feet away in a stroller that places him at the same eye level sits a toddler, working away at an orange wedge that has likely been primed and prepped by his mother, though I wasn’t present when the handoff took place. For the moment, she’s standing several yards away with a selfie stick, capturing an image of the frivolity she’d once taken for granted that now slowly slips from her clutches.

An unopened sleeve of saltines rests its weary crumbs against a street lamp whose daily duty has yet to be fulfilled, two very unlikely partners on a sidewalk where beggars apparently can be choosers.

The Grand Salami

Took a bite out of the grand salami as rent came due for the first time since the accident of seven or twenty lifetimes–it didn’t have the forgiving click I’d once known it to have, nor the pallid complexion to which I’d become accustomed. Kept taking bites, not knowing what to expect (consistently finding myself disappointed with the mediocrity).

Memory coats your experiences with an obscuring lacquer, tossing them into a vortex where they’re perfectly preserved as imperfect accounts. Rarely are they ever challenged in your own mind, they prefer to kick around the temporal realm and surface as nostalgia from time to time.

Before I’d been rudely jolted back into reality by a new salami experience, I was content to reminisce on the superb quality of the last one. But was it really that special? That hallowed bite came on the same day as my nephew’s graduation from that college prep they’re all raving about these days, so perhaps I allowed myself to override the underwhelming sausage experience with fondness for another scenario that happened at roughly the same time. Whatever the case, I’m going to lay off the cured meats for a while.

Factory

Tenderer than the tiniest tangerine and more available than bargain basement fried rice, one can only surmise that the weight of this whole Edgar-spinning habañero factory would equal that of a mid-grade mouse (at least after said mouse has purged itself of the latest fad diet food). If that’s not the case, then the sabotage worked its wonders once again (God bless us all) and our strange liquidation may have been for naught. But let’s not think about such treachery at this moment–heaven will be waiting for us upon the cessation of our final scruples. I’m telling you, this must be true. Why else would I even bother placating you? Death amounts to the complete reversal of mortal avarice, I’ve been told. By a reliable source, mind you. Now, I can’t go around blabbing about the destinations of our celestial bodies and not buy you a drink. That would be a crime. Manhattan for you? Never had one?! This will be interesting.