Sinking into a bar chair, sawdust smell mixing with the smell of spilled spirits and music loud enough to displace the dust on the paintings and even the stiffest Dewar's drunk. Cousin Maudlin, down from New England for the summer, eschewing easy evenings on the Esplanade, now standing here I, hat in hand, asking for some kind of cold comfort in black like physiognomy is such a common reference point that other people should read into the context clues--carting around scotched-up red eyes on a IT department plastic cart with a broken swivel wheel and a background chorus "Amy, look at this black mark! It comes all the way from the door towards the stairs... what got in here? Can you call Jimmy over, please, it's unsightly." Oh my god, oh my good god, laughing from the sidelines of someone else's life, spectating free of charge getting the glimpse into someone else's broken moments. Hey Elle, where did you go after our sorority summer? Who is your best man now? How many more downward dogs until Zen - Pax? How many more salads until you get to ring the bell? I'll be in the back room, drinking my half of the beer, right out of the fucking bag, ya know? eyes turned up to Heaven's Gate in mid-flight. But our dear cousin isn't having fun. Learn to wear sneakers and take a deep breath, it just doesn't matter anymore. You'll be fine, and then you won't be, and either way it won't matter in the interim how much you enjoy it, so wear a smile at least. You'll get fewer wrinkles.
And maybe this is what it feels like. Not gutshot pain, not even the pain of a papercut, but an ache that you couldn't point to on a doll but you can visualize as something that is no longer the right color, signals from neighbors ignored, a comical Lucy in the chocolate shop with a more bittersweet ending. There's no pause button on the conveyor belt so the mistakes only compound. Objects with fancy names that you only learn when they have a gun aimed between your eyes. Give me all your money and good sweet lord you will give them your fucking money and everything you've got, Hero, you will weep for mankind dear Hero, you won't save anyone today, darling Hero, and when you wake up with makeup still caked on your face like some literal manifestation of the lies you scattered behind you like some kind of Hansel and Gretel shit trail back to the house, precious Hero, when the day comes when you are just to tired to do the very basic things required for entry into the VIP you'll hear the deafening rumble of sounds that are outside of your sonic range, something that is well higher than 60khz and lower than 10hz and is at some decibel level that would make even the most molly soaked Burning Man attendee fall from their welded precipice of imagined realization in the form of a giant statue of a Priest with a simple man on his shoulder, whispering the truth, the rumble that you can feel in your ears not as a sound but as pressure, sweet Jesus do you feel that pressure, all of the sudden aware of the way you are wearing your clothes the way Adam and Eve became aware of being naked or the first time you went to a party and realized you had no idea how to dress, clothing shifting in the pulsing air of the sound and you, sweet Hero, breaking down into silent tears, a martyr for nothing and for no one.
I have my own problems and I don't care. Here's my number.
No one told us how to breathe but we sucked for air until we broke through. No one told us how to play but we know how. No one told us how to love but we figure it out. No one told us what it will feel like to die, to feel the slow pull of gravity, ignorant of mass or design, will its realization come in time or are we millenniums away from evolving to the point where we can handle the most basic of tasks, the grand release as the curtains fall and our act comes to a close? Or will we be left to try to put words behind something so simple and binary, that you day you are here and the next you cease to exist, and your only job is your only superpower: to do the best that you can with what you have, as long as you are so lucky to have it, because They can take that from you, and you had better fucking believe that they will.
Good show ya fucking legend! Now a bit more'da brown and tell me a story about life back in Eireann--and Jaysus no fucking Galway Bay this time, OK? I want to to remember it like the stouries, not like the visions, I can handle that on me own.
And Good God what is that noise?