the neighbor’s porch
We
should count ourselves lucky. How good the time is lasting. How time is lasting
good. That means something right now. Nevermind kinetics. I'm self aware but
it's of no consequence. I can do anything without any repercussion I'm willing
to worry over. Like my neighbor's porch. I've never even talked to those old
folks. But they're kindly, I know, everyone's kindly. Like me. Let's go.
It's somewhere past midnight and I'm beckoning you, and you're enough on my
wavelength to come. That old fogey house, follow me, follow my lead, my lead
sheet, like it's your bible. It's MY bible after all, it's good enough for me.
The world is my home. I wonder, I loudly inquire of you, and I know your answer
will be golden: What ethnicity is this old couple, the Edilizias? Sounds
Italian to me. Let's go into the history and what it means for everything. No,
pull up a chair, it's alright, I swear, these are my neighbors, even though
I've never talked to them, everything is alright.
"Bring the NOISE!" I scream and you laugh. We're sitting on my
neighbor's rocking chairs, on their porch. We wandered up here from downtown
and made ourselves at home, in this beautiful sloped suburb, with casual haste,
blood engorged dynamos. Night. A little nichtmusik, maestro. We crashed this quiet
hood, immaculate, and I have just acquired three hundred things to say about
their garden. Let's have a garden party, a luau in the strawberry patch. Teach
me, you wizened depression era survivors, I have so much to learn.
Now I insist we do a vocal version of the Anthrax/Public Enemy rap-metal song
Rick Rubin helped engineer. You oblige, gamely, that's why I keep you around,
you beautiful person, I love looking into your eyes and seeing how I can
appreciate how genuine your flesh basket is. This is Window. Bring the noise.
It will fuel a thirty minute conversation I will compress into forty seconds.
That's how things work here. After I'm done schooling you on Rick Rubin, some
other subject will immediately occur to me.
Actually, forget Rick Rubin, don't you LOVE the WOOD of these CHAIRS? This is
what they call Heaven on Earth. What are we going to do when our noise wakes up
these italian neighbors, you wonder. Won't they freak out? What if they have a
shotgun? I scream laughter. This is Canada. We're axe murderers up here. If
there's anything to worry about, it's the hatchet. We will meld with their
lineage, that's all. I know that's impractical, I know there is such a thing as
reality, and this is not it, but that just encourages me. I'm incorrigible. You're
in my entourage. It's okay. I'm loving it and so should you. This is the only
time I'm capable of commanding an entourage. We'll tour the arbitrage.
Uh oh. You notice it first, but I swivel my head in the happy jitter of
knee-jerk. Reaction. They're up. Mr. Edilizias, his wife hi pitching something
in the catacombs of inside. He doesn't look happy. Well why would he be? It's
okay, I can deal with this situation. No, I know I can't, because despite my
best intentions, my impossible to control physical jitters will give away too
much context. I'll let you do the talking and try not to look too crazy.
You say, "Hey, sorry, we were just hanging on your porch for a minute,
we're going now, sorry to disturb you." You always know what to do. Maybe
you saved my life.
We should hang, I think, we can work it out. But no, despite how low gravity is
for me, I know we must go. And that's okay. Hey, heaven is everywhere.
Although the first crack is in my head now. The sink. The drain. There's no way
to avoid the crash, I know that feeling. But wait. It's gone. The good is back.
It's sweet again. I feel it in my body, the warmth. And it's lasting again. Oh
good, oh God. I don't thank God for heaven, that's sacrilegious. It's a sin,
like the spacemen said.
But it's swirling again, toward the death, the destination. Damnit. The way it
goes down the drain is so sad, I don't know what to do. When you slowly, oh so
slowly run out of things to talk about, a drawn out torturous death of night,
when you have time to try and find some way to be upbeat, some way that will be
forever elusive, but you try. You don't try though, you're more sophisticated
than me. That's why I get higher, that's why I crash so hard. The ridiculous
reality is that this empty ness, this grave is the price of regaining dignity.
What good is that? It's the currency, it's how we buy fuel. We gave up happiness,
but we didn’t give up gas. Dignity is dollars.
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