Pound This Night Write

Wrought and transcribed:

The night pounds hard and heavy in light weighted view flashing before my eyes can hear what motion my pen can hold. The senses that consider my observations in check wear the ambience like a mantle of earth shifting in tectonic stretch of long unused energy across the touch your own perceptive view as these words bring the silent bedlam to your static nerves. Very merry, quiet can vary, how does your guarding crow fly on about the infusion intrusion of overwhelming aural displacement? Dance.
Offers advanced of shared music-movement hold sweet frustration and considered situational realities with the home front winning by a lens lied, for what looks good is not necessarily what it appears to be. Denial with a smile fares better than to part from the heart. But that is the way the cookie is supposed to bounce, no? Energized, rhythmic cavorting amidst the structured vibrations of impulsioned air tends to be a team sport, but gender paired, gender opposed or general free-for-all participants are left to their own devices together individually in the infectious flashing of the ongoing moment. Dance.
Recognition holds a touch of attentive action, then is gone with the flow as fearlessly flavored magic wands itself by, the frills of percolated wrythm, the (e)motion of coordinated gestures, the familiarity of the broadcast selections all reinforce enthusiasm beyond the already frantic involvement in the night woven conjured spell. Rock and role. Put your hands in the air (feel the fusion) and let the wrist of your occupation hold its breath in the touch of your palm. Point and trip the light fantastic, the view is captivating in tempoed turn, alluring, hypnotic, but the action is best left to its own devolvement and determination in the spurious moment. Impartations of manifest departations follow the lead they provide to ride and fly; Hello: goodbye. Dance.
Alone again, nature a lea to cultivate in my independent see, when a sudden passing motion returns to smile within the active response of my over-rising participation, and I follow like a dream floored in its own excision. A query (as to my now solitary situation) led the extracted lead out and the lead weighed in step after step in shadow to take to that very dream in real time and situation, caught in the light of heavy din and dun (the debt of my years given credit for a later, stiffened payment), getting down to the grounded response of (dated, I’m sure) style. Dance.
Lost in limbo, bending time backwards while shuffling forth under the cultural discrepancies of generational anomaly, the rocking steady lines bordering recourse brought sense and sentience to my foray into the crowd, extracted condition and promoted my distinction from those I sought to blend among. Observe and relate, the wrest is up to you. Tied in nots: Confide stride vied defied implied deride in tried (and tributed) collide chide reside denied inside, but spied wide on the slide, as the plied ride shied astride (a flied filed field yield), hide and dried, while I sighed with sundered pride. So I returned and sat back to the thrill of passive rite: read on (if you dare the tide and….) Dance.
Time to liven up. Pipe the (overriding) cultured bag and stick it to the beat, the rhythm is yours to move your feet. Or, just list in and churn in appreciative confusion on the lean offerings. When iris eyes are smiling in sweet scented blossom and the scene clamors to squeeze hard between these lines to find another, almost distant viewer (you are a bit too distant), my mirror will wag the tale with my pen sieve, ink-strained tongue and drain the colored hew carved upon the slate you (close enough now) contrive to comprehend. Garden dreams in the wood. Chisel your own ideas into this floral array of energy and appreciate those of others. Step. Dance.
Mean wile, on with the showing. The energy of your eyes keeps my pen focused in the fog of an entirely removed cultural awareness, and the transition to current tides washes clean and clear on the open shades of each individual ocean of self-awareness. And, in spite of other activities, alternate video selections begin to fold repeatedly upon my own reflected energy in apparent random patterns of digital geometrics, provoking forth inspired consideration, quite in spite of my surprise and pleasure. Subalternative screens play production crafted theatricals in accompaniment to the particular commercial recording blasting the basic drive of physical focus. Dance.
What move can find groove in the patterns scribed unto this night? Potential differential lies in the face of honest considerations and holds substance right and steady, the continuous sensory over-load notwithstanding, just beyond touch and realization. Sudden clarification sways and swirls to just as unexpectedly diminish and fade, but the moment has eased transition to translation and carried my efforts beyond portrayed view… at least, I think so… I can’t see it to verify to edify, simple and lost where it belongs. Thank and gamble, would you link a nether touch? Teach me to learn. But the amusement finds another way to fold and cover, the means to an end transcends and finds alternative functions in the beat of heated inter-fraction, one other at a time. Think and gambol, purse your lights in the lost moments of euphoria, for that’s what makes you beautiful and keeps me captive in the realm of observant smile. At least, fore most and forever, it holds while you look where I inform all lies in formal eyes over my shouldered load, that they are carried past knowing into the time being as it falls, appearance as you may wear it within your thoughtful heart. Dance.
I watch those who watch those who find the mood blends to their substantives moves, fighting entropy with its own game, denying the dissipation of substance in the continual outpouring of activity, not holding back for the later that is the fountain of truth. Youth burns it wick close to the touch. I feel the night wrapping closer, my own confrontation with experience savors the light and soaks the heat generated mood. The set of perception, running hard to ease forward in the covet wag on train to the floor tracking machination driven thirst, carried in eclectic definition and consumption, yields to desire. Nuts to a tired later drive, chug a lug and join the fun. Dance.
In another light I’d probably be able to see what I’m writing, but otherwise, we are both in the dark of the night (which in no way affects what is read) sporting our minds astray, to find an eligible encore to passion held by someone else’s dream. Channels of focused energy maintain the offerings of light, noise and relaxed inhibition, just like a played ground of (more) earth moving tech-tronics, intending consequence to direction, not fulfillment, will connect and correspond. Good to go. Dance.
Warnings relay impending alteration of offering in divergent direction beyond the immediate location. The last call to moisten the drying night dulls the mood, dims the urgency, darkens the eyes of festivity and winds down the music springing eternal until it ends. The lights fill full their destiny, bringing substance and direction to prospective awareness. The hardened crowd parts and fragments into tomorrow, the needs of the moment met or carried on with the energies expended in seeking them, gone until the next stepping of ritual affects in gendered complicity and finds the way to hide in the open eyes of night, the welcome smiles of alcohol, the beating heart of rhythm and the sway that is carried to the floor. Duration. Slowed motion writes upon the walls of time and shares the secrets of your need to need. Take your light and shine it on another day of night lived escape from the chill of dark loneliness. Read me like a book. Dance.
Alons zie, time to be free. Dance.

…and that’s exactly how it was written (except for the parts I changed or added). Time to go: Dance.

Dance the light in the wave of the night

Dance the light in the wave of the night

Gaming The Night (reducks)

041613 Exactly one month after, time quickly ducks down and quacks under a quick read across the depictions of this (earlier) post, and I was dismayed to find numerous errors and disclarity (I declare!) in its communication. So I set to and edited. It is now a less clearly vague and more discernibly unclear flowing action, revisited (sign the guest book on your way out) that is translated, like the study of dud languages. I apologize amateur-fusely (I don’t get paid for this, y’know. At least not as of its writing. It’s always later that the good stuff happens, never when I’m around) for any misconstructions you were not able to construe. I spend time and effort as if it were the money I don’t have in order to craft these offerings, and I would not de-sire the progeny of my mental facilities to be less than my best put forthisms, sore to speak. I enjoyn my likeness of worded ply ploys and get a kick out of footing the bill to your wonder and pleasure, especially, of course, if you actually start reading and clearly don’t understand what is explained to the eyes that grab and the mind that grapples, but like it anyway, as well. Join. So, have another go, perhaps even before your first, and see what there is to wonder that you’re looking at down the spurious rabbit hole of what happenstance the night around me wrapped, as I spent the day (and, if you want to get down to it, my entire existence) preparing to right that night write. Thus streams my conscious thoughts onto media that you certainly seem to be able to pick up, pack up and follow… you’ve made it this far. Carry on.

(Prelease) Sitting to transcribe my written efforts from this past Saturday night (viewed from this writing of its following Tuesday eve), I realized that the activities and subsequent efforts of the day in note, to note, ensconced myself in an inspirational environment of positive, energetic social interaction leading up to those efforts and would do well with a mention. I began writing an introduction to my remanded notebook entry of that night, relating the day and activities that led up to my actual journalized scrivveling, and ended up telling tale beyond intention, yet flowing in realized satisfaction of detailed completion of activity. So well wrought, in fact, that beyond the inspired lead in to the actual journal entry, it was an entry unto itself. Therefore, it stands alone among all its game efforts and ends at the introduction to what I eventually did write that night. I offer that lead in here, as I have yet to even try reading (it was dark, although I did have two wine glasses [lead glass?] to aid my vision, ), let alone transcribing into viable translocution and relation, my captured thoughts, the efforts in point, the pointed efforts (like a kaleidoscope) of my journal into the evening. I shall endeavor that goal forthwith, but I’m sure another few days will pass before I am satisfied with the results. I offer here the play by play say of the way of the day, so you can see what I say is so. Therefore, (played for the fair folly) wherefore the hitherto fore aforementioned foreplay foray into the day is offered forthwith for your forthright consumption. Just follow the bumping ball: Fore!

031613 Gaming The Night
Competition wrapped the afternoon in team effected play upon the sparkled cluster of crystal lake courts, spread across the inner horizon, with their shorelines and beaches bordering geometrically to contain the fields of flowing, liquid play; a raised rectangle of net, stretched across the center of the narrows to fish for errant ploys, separated two (roughly) equal, opposing, boundaried squares which contained the motion of ebb and flow to keep the ball afloat or sink it on the other side. Volleyball, anyone? A splash dash of our team’s early tournament success was tempered by a stretch of close-but-losing games, twice each to the other teams in our three team pool (swim the viscous motion of continuity bobbing along… as long as you don’t splash), thus enabling us to attain third place in that grouping. What luck: hurray. Our reward for this was to play the second place group from the other (four team) pool (it was a splash party) in the first round of playoffs. We accomplished winning with competent efficiency, and then moved on to the semi-finals against the first place team of our pool (again, for the fourth game against them), giving us opportunity to even up the score as we had beaten them one game and knew we could do it again.
However: Not so lucky. We came up a few points short once more, but felt we’d played hard, if not our best, and had no real complaints. Then we flipped a coin against the other losing semi-final squad (the second place team of our pool had beaten them, moving on to the finals against the guys, from our enduring pool, who beat us) (lucky!) the right to stay and referee the finals (proving that not all luck is good luck), while the other team could go home. (Are you following all this? If not then you and I are on even footing, so let’s step lively, time is short.) It was already after 8pm, so we were not quite enthused about this turn of events, but that’s the way the anchor floats in these kinds of pool parties. You rah, rah.
I am the designated ‘up ref’ (primary referee, on an elevated stand at one end of the net, where I could catch any fish that touch across its top) for our team, and this would be (again) the fourth time I would ref the same two teams. Step up, check out, blow whistle, play ball, watch close, make calls, repeat. The game was hard fought, close, and enjoyable to watch. Only one stop-the-match issue occurred, which, after some explanatory considerations, was handled satisfactorily well. The first place team from our original group persevered to win (for the third time of four, just like they did against us), thus proving that we had a strong pool in which to swim our collective skills. A good time was had by all, making the tournament a decisive success.
Then it was time to carry on, for St. Patrick’s Day Eve on a Saturday night held a most propitious opportunity to investigate an immediate, culturally celebratory future. It was exactly thirty-four years ago that I had one of the most intense days of my life. Remember it? There is a good bit of it that I don’t. I wrote in great length and detail (except for the fuzzy bits) about it in my book, Endless Shifting Sand (bald faced plug: Amazon), but that’s the scion of another St. Patrick’s beach bash and we must return to the crystal lake of potential for imminent notation worthy adventures yet to be transcribed.
As I was returning from my car with my bag of (non-sweaty) clothes to change into (green it up a bit), I stopped and spoke with a teammate as he was just driving out, and arranged to meet him and another mate at a local bar we had been to several months before, after a previous tournament. I said I figured I could remember where it was, so he drove on, and I went back inside to change. I also hoped to find my errant volleyball, which had never returned after one of the warm up sessions before a match. I made the dressing down alteration up to par, then prowled all around the six courts and bordering areas looking for my wayward ball, but to no avail. Phooey. My name is on it so it might come back, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve lost a volleyball in a tournament. More lucky breaks of the game.
I spoke the director of the facility (the setter from the winning team) about my missing ball, and said that if he found it, to keep it until the next tourney. I went out, got in the car, then headed out to find downtown and the bar. I recalled that it was located in what must have once been a bank, for tall cement pillars flanked the stolid entryway, but I wasn’t sure just where it was located in relation to where I was. I had passengered last time and not driven, so the memory was vague. With only a minimal amount of going ‘this-way’ instead of ‘that-way’ (and then regretting it), I pulled by a street that looked familiar and turned to see that I indeed had found the Rue (hopefully with no regrets) de la Established Meeting Premises. I slow cruised up the one-way street, seeking the wide open spaces of designated vehicular stationing (one space would be quite sufficient), as other cars trolled in front and behind me in congruent search. My lack of volleyball luck brought forth a more practically applied fortuitous circumstance when a vehicle parked ahead put on his back-up lights, just as the car in front of me passed it. Perfect! I waited for the exiting car (it wasn’t a false alarm, as these things sometimes pan out) to vacate, then reigned in to the hitching-post’s urban descendant, safely curbing my trusty steed within the delineated confines, and turned off the car. One of the members of the winning team strode by just then, heading toward the bar, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to catch his attention. I readied myself, stepped out, locked up and walked on back down the street to the located establishment. There were several people outside the front, on this chill end of winter night, smoking cigarettes and giving just cause to enter the intended social arena while holding my breath. There were a couple guys eyeing people as they came in, but I wasn’t asked to show identification. I took this to mean I must have been acting like I look my age, which is nothing new (old school, so to speak). I entered and time stopped fooling around as the tempo of life washed hard and fast across around my senses and sentience. The noise could kill.
Beyond that first blast of pounding air, sharp flashing lights and corybantic (thank you, Dictionarydotcom) motion, I was able to perceive the gathered crowd stretched lengthwise in a large, rectangular room, with the bar an elongated island down the middle. To the left of the bar, along the crowded way, was a wider aisle, with tables set up down (the ups and downs of the place) the center of it, and tables parallel to these along the wall, creating two separate aisles of passage. There was an overhang, created by a narrow, circumferential second floor that circled around the entire room, giving low ceiling to the tables against the wall and leaving the middle area two stories high. (I suppose I could tell the other story later, but that would be silly, wouldn’t it? Unless you’re high, of course.) The aisle to the right side of the long bar was only wide enough to permit one row of tables, against the enclosing wall, under the overhang (similar to the over and under ploy), with space for crowded traffic between them and the length of barstools. But all that was geographic and only secondary to my awareness, for the low lit place was alive with glowing green necklaces, glowing green headbands, flashing green buttons, flashing green hat accessories, flashing green plastic wands, flashing green leprechauns (not really, I was just seeing if you were paying attention and weren’t distracted by all the pretty lights) and an array of digitally dancing beams that panned down on the mingled crowd from above. Light blasted in green edged swirls, noise beat hard the breath I chewed, motion knotted itself in compound flow around the room and the overt energies of youth called like a siren’s song (perhaps a trailing police vehicle?) to my anticipations in sensory overload: just what I wanted for inspiration!
I stood and swept the room as clean as I could with my dust pan glance, but could not get the dirt on where my mates were located, so I had to do the dirty work on foot. I opted to the right and proceeded to wind, squeeze and twist through the loudly (to succeed over the music) conversant patrons, noticing that a great many of these chattering folks, dancing in the aisles with uninhibited verve (and on whom most of the flashing green was displayed), were young, attractive females. This was, in fact, not a problem. I persevered about half-way along the bar without seeing my friends, when I realized that I did not need their assistance or presence in acquiring a suitable beverage. So I stepped up to the bar at an unoccupied seat between people, caught the attentions of a bar tender, tendered my order and waited for the resultant libation. The girl sitting on my left made a smiling comment to me, but my poorly functioning auditory receptors could not hear, let alone understand, her words, frustrating my social interaction and disappointing my desire for just such an interaction. I thought about the effort and potential effect of explaining to her my (aged) infirmity, but realized that it would most likely be more from me than her quip had intentioned. So I did the manly thing and nodded, smiled and turned back to the bar. Wimp.
My glass arrived, I paid and then continued on my travels to search out my companions in order to share experience of this raucous place. I charted my coursing through the thick and thin, around hills and dales of shapely countryside, past the large and small people that shared the energies of the night, came around the end of the bar and back toward the front along the other side. I hove to the well-peopled passage nearer the anchoring influence of the bar, and navigated back toward the front of the room. I was nearing the launching point of my circumspection, when I recognized another player from the winning team, just stepping in through the entryway. We made eye-contact, (being tall has its advantages), waved and I plowed over to shake hands and greet. He said he was looking for his team and I informed him that I had seen one of his teammates before I entered the bar. I told him I was looking for volleyball players as well, but was having no luck, but was finding plenty of people I did not recognize. We exchanged names (much better than mentally referring to him as the-thin-balding-guy-who-hits-well) and he said he was going back outside to call and locate his friends via technology. I opted for the manual/visual approach, as I was sure that a phone call into (or out from) this place would be difficult at best. I don’t text. We wished each other luck (be careful with that), he turned and exited, and I went on with my travels, having seen stairs in the corner which I presumed would lead me to the upper level.
Step up, then around to the left and further up to see a barmaid flounce her mini-kilt behind the open end of a small bar for the high-weighed patrons thereabouts, saving them the trek downstairs for refurbishmentalities. Things are looking up …Cheers! I reached the floor then scooped this elevated loop like a downtown Chicago connection, and discovered bathrooms around the far corner, but not my friends. I parked myself at the railing, near the stairs where I had come up, and watched the commotion below, enjoying the green light chaos contrasted with the computer light precision. I thought about stationing myself right there along the rail to find my intended, transcriptive literary inspiration, when I saw a familiar hat down below. It was perched on the head of one of my friends, sitting at a table along the far wall under the second level overhang. My other teammate was sitting next to him. (Their table was on the other side of the row of free standing tables away from where I had transversed that side of the room, thus putting the ‘miss’ in my mission to find them.) Hurray, they weren’t lost any more! (I’m sure they will be relieved to learn that.) I stepped down the stairs to give them this exciting news, but stopped on the landing at the bend near the bottom, where I could see that my two friends (B and D, to differentiate and label them without their becoming too personally involved in my tale) were quite readily observable from where I stood, as they sat facing me at the second table from the bottom of the few steps down from my stand. There were three chairs to a side of each table and an unfamiliar couple was sitting across their table from my friends, with their backs to me. I deduced that the limited space for the overload of patrons required some cooperative sharing of available tabled/seating space. I waited for one of my mates to notice me ‘magically’ appear on the stairway landing right before their eyes, but they were looking off to their left (my right) at one of the many video screens in action (always room for more sensory input) around the bar. I paid homage to curiosity and looked to see that a video show displayed (on the nearest screen, the others were elsewise occupied in content) the antics of people and animals with things stuck on their heads. It was actually quite (benignly) amusing, so I stood and watched for a few minutes. I finally saw B look up toward the stairs, so I smiled and waved, and he looked away without seeing me. Grumble grumble. What good is a simple mind game if people don’t mind the simple rules and notice the situation I’ve manipulated? So I came down the last few steps and over to their table, just as a waitress brought a tray with two plates of food. Good timing! The waitress delivered and left, and I stepped up to the end of the table and asked, “Is the food any good here?” getting a startled look in return recognized surprise.
“Oh. You’re here!” was the deduction B offered, and I did not deny the assertion. I told B of my search for them and that I had recognized his hat from above. A heads up ploy, for sure. I asked D, sitting in the middle chair of the three on their side, to spread out as I squeezed in to the empty seat against the wall, placed my wine on the table, put my jacket on the chair back, and sat down. We shouted conversation a bit as they ate, commenting on the scene, the three of us ‘older’ guys not used to this kind of overt, energetic revelry. The couple on the other side of the table was preoccupied with itself and did not interact with us.
By the time burgers were consumed, I was feeling the touch of creative inspiration and decided it was time to start writing, which was my general purpose in this latter evening situation. I reached for my… uhh… oh. My notebook is in the bag that had my change of clothes, still chilling in the car. I told B and D that I had to go to the car to get my notebook and that I’d be right back. I shrugged into my coat, squeezed out past my teammates, wound my way through the crowd to the door, strode past the line to get in, grimaced by the smokers, and stepped out into the cool of the night. Wow… chilly, maybe I should have zipped my jacket. But, only half a block, and I quickly huddled on, unlocked the car, opened the door, found the bag, fished out the notebook, closed the bag, shut and locked the door and started to trudge back to the bar just as three pretty girls walked by in the same direction. So, luck being the erratic foil of the eve, I followed them back down the street. One tight pair of pants and two very short (and cold, I’m sure) skirts kept my interest well enough focused that, as they turned into an unfamiliar bar near the end of the street, I realized I’d walked right on by the one I had come from. 20/20 hindsight (putting a double ENDtendre to the term). Pivot, walk back a few storefronts to stand in line to (re)enter as I.D.’s were being scrutinized. I waited my turn, and then, as I stepped up to the guy who was looking at everyone’s driver’s license and sticking them in some kind of scanning device before allowing them past, confronted his perusal. I looked at him with a smile and said, “Do you really need to card me?” He laughed and said, “No.” Revel in the little advantages to aging.
I slip slid through the crowd back to the table to find that the couple had left and B and D had moved over to that other side to be able to see the dance area better. The green lighting was moving loud and the beat of the activity was entrancing. I returned to my spot across from them, putting the book on the table and my jacket on the back of the chair once more, and watched the commotion for a few seconds. I then faced the table top, turned open the book, and pulled out my ….my …my pen is …not with me. Oh yeah! I …uh, …I left it in the same bag as the book. Well. Okay. Mental chuckles and shrugs. I admitted to the guys that I had to now go back out to the car and get a pen. I sighed, then I repeated the process of shrugging off to the car (… chilly, maybe I should have zipped my jacket…), retrieved the errant device and returned with no further adventures, even strolling in to the bar without having to ask if I didn’t need to show my identification to prove I was who I am as old as I look, and set myself back at the table. The noise, the motion, the lights, the voices, the videos, the clatter and bustle of a busy bar, and the youthful, exuberant energy that rides in symbiotic reinforcement of it all, put forth its primal drum beat call to my intentioned, creative urge. The muse was clanging in my ear, but I couldn’t hear it, and wouldn’t have noticed anyway, for it was time to write, as I opened the notebook, clicked the pen and put down on paper the basis for what now (finally) follows. Game on.

There ends the reworded transcription. I haven’t bothered reading the actual journal entry, and I am trusting it to its own deceptions. Play that on your courted efforts.

Pulse the Pounding Air

Pulse the Pounding Air

Saturday Night Refractions

I used to go out to bars or night clubs upon occasion, find a spot to sit, observe the people, and write about the thoughts thus inspired. However, I haven’t done it for several years. I had time, opportunity and inspiration last weekend and I availed myself of this potential, drove down to Chicago (30+ miles), found a random bar and wrote the night away. The following is the edited results of this effort. I like it and I think I’ll try it again soon. See you there…

Shy walls and eye-filled halls reverberate the night and hold out attentions like an entry in a book written of a future long ago, today. To touch the culture of the night and hold your high weigh eyes captive in the binding of sneak piqued interest which inertia will carry (that wait) to the scene, gives me direction to drive the thought processional of my words home to your castle mind.
I have arrived and am set to note what it is you herewith read, between the written lines of yesterday and the blank pages of tomorrow. It has been a strange journey to arrive here at this now down on paper with the evening still yet to ease through, dressed to the hilt in ink. What stories can I sculpt, what images can I project, what word play can I plot, what twist can I wring from the disparate energies I seek to harness? I’m tired of being tired, my own energies ebb and flow in the all-encompassing bio-rhythmic kitsch in synch of my sea-changed appetites, yet I must continue to stomach the lode and expend effort against the inexorable tides of thickening time. I have been shoved into this push by the miles I’ve trod, stepping one day at my time along the endless shore (my footprints will stop, and wash away, but the shore coasts on and on), while watching the flat-lined scenery evolve. This brings home the need to keep on top of the surface tension situations my location (along the oceans of spatial society) requires in any given reflection. Inspiration is not an effervescent fountain that fills my mind with the directive written at (your) hand, so I must seek splashing and churning activities to hopefully provoke a wash of cleansing imagery and translocution. Tau much fun. I must yield to the moment (it is what it is) and mark due in the opportunity I hold, personal involvement notwithstanding. What destination do I need to strive toward to be able to feel comfortably mingled in observation, with imagination well enough to create the view I envision? Intention, in tension, intent shun the expected distractions and shine into alternative diversions. Swim, catch a waive and turn the page.
Duplicitous words lie upon the (literary communication aspect of your choice) in honest statement, giving silent voice to the motion these static lines feed what is read to the appetite of your regarded considerations. I step up to work the crowd, to set the voices pulsing, to hold the gilded mirror of my eyes in front of yours, and watch as you see what I say: Observe, interpret, transcribe and continue while I sit back and relax.
Last night left the potential that tonight offers but can’t seem to find. I force the muse to face the music and play along with the game, hoping that the play finds its own rewards in what is seen to fallow. It must be party time somewhere.
Emotion fields a variety of intent, but where does it come from? Desire and need fill the vacant times that Life allots to attention, we move toward the attraction most prevalent in awareness, understanding that this sometimes entails provoking a situation to be less rather than more. Social interaction twines around the rhythmic noise that calls for succor and notice among its own oblivion directed energy. Among this, the floor dances with light and well-intentioned antics, giving entertainment a variation of pursuit. Clusters of conversation find sustenance in the consumption of liquid expectation and fantasy, the established means toward the end of (conceived) loneliness, and the basic commodity of the premises. Eyes roam toward eyes and spark speculative considerations that collaborate with unstructured determination for an aspect of a congruent, unperceived goal. Dance with words, converse with syncopated gyrations, communicate with a smile.
The silent corners of tomorrow rest easy in preparation for the fulfillment of sound situations passing through the moment like a sigh. These ere the girdled daze of youth, for never will we read these words this young again. Distraction strolls along the aisles of order and chaos while I attempt to maintain, in spite of myself, eclectic considerations of the same as I would like it to pertain to me. I don’t know if there is a limit to this moment until it passes into your awareness and leaves mine behind (even accounting for my own second party participation) in the perpetuation realized through these self-referred words. The gathering motion of interacting patronage sidles closer, spilling sweet smiles into the air that breathes the touch of my inscribed efforts, like the trickle down comfort of a feather pillow. I remain ensconced in my literary pursuits as my wide-open view of the bar is close-circulated by the flow of youthful beauty and dream. Such a pleasant situation to find I am lost within. Two real eyes have been found to realize, in circumspection of the surrounding moment, I’m hemmed by the bevy of bodies that, in turn, seek their own assessment of the night, holding at least the semblance of inclusively implied energy. Relation and reflection.
An inserted (diverted) observation in memory offer, from my pointed lack of transcribed accounting at the time, veers my trailing tale, introductory to a gene attribute (ship shape, mind game, well into {careful here} her cups), steady inspired in dark-haired approach to my overt purpose of action (sitting still amidst the frenetic harmony) with (expected, usual) query as to what the intention of that action might consider. My explanatory descriptive respondent allocation of journalized art creation reflected interest in mutual foundation, as one blog writes about another, and a further interest was indulged. Inspired breath inhaled, held the moment, cast dreams upon the shores of moonlit fantasy, took me for a fly to the moon and back to reality’s exhale (and hearty, but scoreless) touch down. Opportunity knocked my head around the block that the situation held in my weigh laden escutcheon (those heavy, block-headed thoughts), so I quickly retrieved one of my last two printed business-informational-summation-hand-out testaments and, with a (boorish) flourish, handed it to her. Placing her drink upon my (well-occupied by similar such parking actions from a variety of alternate patrons) small table, she held the card up to take a look and watched as it was deftly snatched away by her accomplice in this conversational quest regarding my efforts. My awareness of these two vibrant young ladies had been dancing here and there, forth and back, from shadows to lights (it was clearly a black and white situation), with the general flow of the crowd as they (and a few other ladies) had been performing some kind of dance I would call the ‘Dry Hump Hustle’ (a subtle attention getter, for sure), among themselves, as well as against various nearby others for several tips of the aforementioned cups. My erstwhile interviewer indicated that I should keep track of all the well-imbibed folk mingling through the heavy beat of music and social interaction, for there rested great potential of notation worthy actions and activity. My usual hearing impairment kept much of her conversation muffled, but I believe I got the gist in spite of all I missed. Meanwhile, her companion inquired about the words on the back of my card and I assured her that they originated from my mind. She liked them. Delightful! She tucked the goods in her purse with a smile and they danced off into the general considerations of my journalizations. An occasional knowing glance from the dark-haired beauty, accompanied by her raised, twirling finger, regarding the increasingly inebriated state of the music carried crowd, kept me smiling. She moved well in that swirl.
Carry: on: The story you are about to read is true, only the facts have been changed to project the interest. Once upon a time there was a perfect flower. Not the brightest, not the most colorful, not the most luxurious flower, but one of uniquely singular, subtle harmony in all considered aspects. Perfect. This flower rested in a crystal vase, between aged and forgotten books, high on a shelf along the back wall of a small room off a darkened corridor in the upper levels of an ornately stately mansion in the peaceful neighborhood found along the ever-winding streets of dream. It is still there today. This makes for interesting imagery, but has little to do with the variety of flowers I find all around me. Garden.
My decrepitly gnarled virtual-hands can find no grip to pluck, no strength to cultivate, no ability to harvest, no reach to cross over the infinite barrier of Time, to touch past the walls my experience places between my eyes and what they see. Cornered. Perhaps the venue needs transition.
There is humor in every day, sorrow in each fragile night and dreams of a better life in twilight and dawn. What drives the rituals that dance in the tangibly beating music which holds the mood of courted interaction? Youth is served (station seven, by the vegetables) loud and clear through to quiet workings of change and the foggy realm of communication. Pick up the pace and enjoy, the magic holds tight and we can all spread our proverbial wings to fly off the handle of this open door night, away into the promise of tomorrow’s rising potential. (At least your potential can rise … I’m sleeping in late.) Is the flighty flow of visible narrative enough to watch my own eyes game a motion and ride the winds of participation? I catch what I can and lose the rest without afflicting the continuity of your involvement. This neighborhood, and even this establishment (under a different moniker), holds my memories by substant content pertinent to a night thirty-four years ago next week, on St. Patrick’s Day, 1979. But that’s another (already told) tale found in the endless shifting sand of life. Bring your pail and shovel.
Patterns of society, holding us in the permutations of struggle and drive, directing our energies toward activities and dreams, carrying our efforts along the well traveled roads to another day, leading intentions by settled parameters and employing the timeless methods of our mutual cooperation to solidify the structure of these patterns inherent in expected familiarity, like a dance, direct our actions and keep us amused and our attentions diverted. Observe. It amazes me that people can actually understand each other’s conversant shouting as I’m even having a difficult time hearing what I write. Yet still, a smile speaks and I comprehend (to a point), while the aging night reflects in kind (kind of like my tired body). The dancing is not confined to the designated floor as the motion (most readily applied toward the opposing gender) sways among the mouths and minds found in the gyre of ritualized mating activities.
I hear the noise and absorb it with my quiet mind, while you read what I listen to see. Again, sameness, different in persistent alterations, yet perpetual in conditioned effectuation. Celebrate the now before it’s too late (this place closes at 4). Deterioration and excess.
I watch your motion in the night, I strut my hopes to catch your smiles, I beat my heart to find your dreams and lose myself within your wiles. Hip to hop, bump and grind, move this music through your mind, shake your passion in sultry fashion and hold the dance your hungers find.
Meander and flow within the show but, sad to know, it’s time to go. Pleasant dreams… then sleep well.
Michael Steven Platt – 030913 through to 031513

Stepping Between Worlds

Stepping Between Worlds

030913 The Reconstruct Shun

I enjoy dismantling words and phrases, then putting them back together as altered yet similarly pronounced verbiage. Hiding words, and thus meaning, within another set of words is fun, adds depth to communication, gives the reader pause for wondered thought (if they can ply the ploy) and satisfies my need for creative endeavor. Some of my efforts are clever and interesting, but with some I go to elaborate lengths to con a smelly word play out of the material I haul to my purpose. Efforts to such reek-cons trucked toward that end tilt the scales of prosaic lie sense in the fertile lies errant to suplimentaling my garden words. Fertile eyes to blossom like a rose.

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Back, Aching Blues

I’m back.  If you didn’t know I was gone then look to the spaces before this note and see where I’m not. By reverse process of elimination (eliminating that which isn’t there) you can see that this space is occupied and that I am that which occupies it. Ça va.

Illness has been rampant in the form of viral infections. My computer crashed five weeks ago and my computer tech friend discovered a malignant gardening issue in the form of a root kit which had stolen aboard and insinuated itself among the plantings of basic electronica directives, subverting and editing functions and opening access for other such malware. A bad virus. The thriving and harmoniously functioning society of programs that comprised my computer became full of weeds and choked with brambles (not unlike most television) such that it wouldn’t work.

Fortunately, my friend has great expertise in this regard and was able to apply virulent herbicides, judicious weeding, prudent pruning, and other such technical endeavors, and eventually cleanse the malefactors from the landscape. It took three weeks of running varieties of anti-malware programs, but I now have a functioning garden again, although there are, as my friend warned me, some cultivated programs that have been altered by the experience.

It seems a happy ending, yes? No. That nasty virus which had so disabled my computer somehow (I’m convinced) made the transitional leap from virtual being into an actual physical viral malignancy and fastened its terrible tentacles upon my own health and well-being, beginning eight days ago (as of this far in my relating things) on Friday, the 15th. Sore throat, cough, sneezing, and the usual panoply of such manifesterations, plied their afflictions upon my being. Not being content to just be sick, I had to add competition to the mix and I played in a volleyball tournament the next day, Saturday, not realizing at the time how ill I was to become. The team followed my lead and played with a great flair of mediocrity to come in 4th of 7, not so bad, but not that good. I hope I didn’t spread my germinations to the other players. Sunday I was ill, Monday I went to work and dealt with my deteriorating health (as well as the usual assortment of bruises and abrasions from the tournament. I play hard: I did have to stop play at one point to bandage up a bloodied forearm acquired in a fruitless dive for the ball. My reactions were just not up to par.) And I stayed at work for the entire day as one of the people I work with was on vacation (just for that Monday) and I am not one to leave others in the lurch in such situations. Another side note: I do not call in sick. I have called in maybe 4 times in the 21+ years I’ve been at this job, and the last time was about 16 years ago. However, I called in sick on Tuesday.

I called my doctor (even though my computer tech guy is adept at rooting out and terminating viral infections, he has his limits) and he said I should just go to the Emergency Room at the hospital (with which his practice is affiliated), so I did, spending five hours in rather hospitable (if you’ll pardon the expression) surroundings, all things considered. I was jotted in, photocopied, validated, set in a chair to wait and then brought to a private area for further questions, entered into a data base and then attached with the resultant print out in the form of the obligatory plastic wrist-band-of-pertinent-information bracelet. I was getting one of my cold spells (I had been getting them since the volleyball tournament and could hardly talk for the shivering) and the woman who was in charge of me at this time went out into the hall and came back with folded blankets fresh out of a warmer. Wow. Placing those across my legs and around my shoulders was the highlight of the day! After I warmed for a couple minutes, I was led to and seated in a small room, well stocked with overhead lights, a bed on wheels, a variety of cabinet, sinks and other hospital type things, and informed that someone would see me soon. The first activities which occurred during my time in this room were three successive sessions of the ‘Let’s Check Your Lungs…’ game, which is currently very popular at this ER.

After I relaxed for a few minutes, sitting on the end of the bed, a young, prim, uniformed woman doctor entered and introduced herself as a resident (trainee) doctor, asked how I felt and what my symptoms were. My answers must have inspired her, for she said, “Let’s check your lungs…” and stepped around behind me.

“Lift your shirt and lean forward,” so I followed her instructions, leaned forward and learned how to play, with her holding the fingers of one hand against the upper right side of my back. She then said, “Breathe in,” and tapped twice on her hand with the fingers of her other hand. The she said, “Breathe out,” and  moved the hand touching my back to the lower right side, said, “Breathe in,” tapped a couple times, said, “Breathe out,” moved her hand to the left side, “Breathe in,” tap-tap, “Breathe out.”  And one more time, as she moved her hand to the upper left of my back, “Breathe in, “ tap-tap, “Breathe out.” She said, “Okay. Good. Put your shirt back,”

So I pulled my shirt down, sat upright on the bed and waited for the next activity. She wrote on a chart, seemingly pleased with the results of our efforts, and then thanked me. She said that someone would be in soon to see me and then left. And so I learned the game. Easy.

About 5 minutes later, a slightly older masked (giving me no cause for alarm at my potential condition) female, but no less prim or efficient in doctor-apparel appearance, entered and introduced herself as the Head Resident. She asked how I felt and what my symptoms were. Then, when she heard my answers, she said, “Let’s check your lungs…” I dutifully leaned forward (catching on fast) and pulled up the back of my shirt.  She stepped around and, with the fingers of one hand on the upper right side of my back, said, “Breathe in,” did the tap-tap bit, said, “Breathe out,” moved her hand down to the lower right side, said, “Breathe in,” and so on through the four step process, word for word, action for action that the (regular) resident had done. She was as satisfied with the outcome as the first doctor. (I get better with practice.) She said, “Okay, Good, You can put your shirt back,” and made some notes on her clipboard. Then, with a smile, said that someone would be in soon to see me and left.

Not more than 2 minutes later, a tall mid-thirtyish, masked (I’m beginning to get a complex) male came in, introduced himself as The ER Doctor, asked me how I felt and what my symptoms were. (I’ve got this down pat now). He then (surprise!) said, “Let’s check your lungs…” and I obediently raised my shirt as I leaned forward and he made the game scene a tap-tap dancing hat trick (I tip it thus to these three vigilant players for the confidence they gave me in my knowing that my lungs sound good.), word for word, action for action that the other two did.  

“Okay. Good. You can put your shirt back,” The Doctor varied from the story line here and, clipboadlessly told me he wanted to get some x-rays in a photo finish just to make sure that the game was won with proper decorum, because then he could look at what he was listening to. He left (“Someone will be in soon to see you.”) I was flattered at all this fun attention, but I’m glad that there were no more players as my throat was beginning to get parched with all the heavy in-and-out breathing. The nurse (who I guess wasn’t far enough up the totem pole of physicianship to warrant playing the game) returned and fished a gown out of a cupboard, tried unsuccessfully to undo the string ties, got another gown (with strings already untied), handed it to me and told me to change into it. She left, “someone would be…” etc. I managed to disrobe to my underwear and socks, and put my arms through the proper places. I didn’t even try to tie the back stays and just lay down on the bed with the (still warming) blankets over me. Sure enough, a female nurse of sorts came in and proceeded to draw (with needle sharp precision) some vials of blood right out of my arm. Then, she hooked me up to an overhead IV drip of “…fluids and some anti-nausea solution,” covered me with some more fresh, warm blankets (“…aaahhhh…”) and then left with the usual “someone-will-be-in-soon-to-see-you” admonishment. A few minutes later a friendly Hispanic orderly came in, unlocked the wheels of my bed, placed my IV bag on a high hook, wheeled the bed (and thus me) out into the suddenly narrowed hall, swung around to face the double doors, (quick tuck my protruding feet in!), through the automatic swinging portal into another moderately busy hall (nothing like being dressed in an open-backed gown, wheeled around a hospital corridor, past all sorts of curious folks, to make you feel relaxed and at ease) then through another automatic swinging set of double-doors down more hallways and finally into x-ray Room 8 (“Three of our rooms are down, so we have to go to the last one….”) The bed was parked and charge of my presence was given over to the young, prim, uniformed female technician waiting inside. I was asked to get up and stand in front of the image reception box at the side of the room. I don’t recall how it was initiated, but the technician kindly tied the back of my gown, which I appreciated. I got up and shuffled over to face the rectangular, white plastic-faced box, which was suspended from the ceiling along with all sorts of other pertinent machinery. The technician raised the box to my chest height, then came around  and hung the IV drip easily from a convenient metal arm (designed for just such needs) and handed me a protective lead-lined skirt to hold waist high (I was glad the girl had tied the back of my gown shut before I got up to pose) . She stepped into the ‘camera booth’, instructed me to take a deep breath (I was lucky to have had so much recent practice) and stand still. I was shot right through the heart. The girl returned to my side and re-turned me to profile against the box, then did a repeat shoot out (in and through) and I was done and offered my bed back to wait for the results.

After everyone was satisfied that the pictures took, I was once again settled in my moving bed, protective side-rail up, and then wheeled out into the hall. My Hispanic friend was waiting, took over my locomotion and jolted, swerved, and whooshed me back to my room, parked me and left. I dozed, read, stared up at the ceiling and bided my time until all three of the game players had (separately) stopped by, made sure I was okay and said the results of the blood test would be back soon.

After a few hours (all this doesn’t happen as readily as it sounds… except when the Let’s Check Your Lungs game was being played) sitting half-reclined was beginning to strain my lower back and I contemplated pushing the call-button which had been attached to rail of my bed, but I refrained. I finally sat up in the bed and swung my legs over the edge to try to alleviate the growing ache in my back. It was then that Dr. Head Resident finally came back in. She asked about my pained expression and I told her that my back hurt from lying in the bed. She appeared to take this into consideration, then carried on with her original intentions. To further edify my erstwhile care-givers as to my ailments, she produced a long, thin wire brush that she twirled up my right nostril (“Checking the flue,” I think she said) and grossly understated that the sensation would make me feel like sneezing. Maybe she won the Lung Check Game and being able to do the Flue Check Game was her reward (or perhaps it was punishment for losing). She placed this utensil in a container, took it with and her thanked me as she left with the usual admonishment about future visitors.

The Doctor finally returned and informed me that my ailment was not the flu (my flue was fine), but rather a virus. I was to get plenty of rest and drink lots of fluids. He queried as to my pained expression (“…my back hurts from this bed,”). He also said my white blood count was low enough to be worrisome. This (he informed me) was due to the suppression of these anti-bodies by the rheumatoid arthritis medicine I regularly took and the natural depletion of white blood cells by the virus. He had spoken with my rheumatologist on the phone and I was not to take the medicine this week, so that I could get that blood count higher. I was to return for another art drawing class (look sharp with that needle) the following Tuesday (today actually, as I write about it… and the reason I didn’t go back to face the pointed truth is a real snow job, but that’s now, in the future, as I write what you are reading well beyond my time here at the keyboard, and hasn’t happened yet in the past of my narration) to see if I could up my ante in defensive parlay. He wrote out an order for this endeavor and handed it to me.

With these admonishments and a “Hope you feel better,” he made his final exit and Head Resident Doctor returned. She queried me about my pained expression and subsequent grimacing, as I laboriously stood up. “…my back hurts from this bed,” I reminded her.  She again took this with great aplomb, then went on to make sure I would return the following Tuesday (I still haven’t been, but I’m planning on going tomorrow, when the snow has stopped and travel is easier.) I was disengaged from the IV (I had emptied the bag) and told to get dressed and I was free to go.

Left to my own devises I had to shuck myself out of the back-tied gown, pulling it over my head, got dressed, feeling chilled again, and then shuffled my pained and queasy-weary was down the halls (“Which way? Oh… thanks,”) and out the door into the cold of the afternoon. As I drove home I called in sick for the next two days and promised my boss I would do my best to get better.

My aching back bothered me almost as much as my feeling of general malaise over the next few miserable days. It wasn’t until the following Monday that I went back to work, and it was a long, tiring affair, but I survived.

Tuesday again, was a snow storm, so I didn’t make it to the hospital. And now, after taking over a week to write this, fighting lethargy, continued illness and poor memory of the events while in the ER (I was too sick to pay close attention), I find myself fighting another viral-like attack in the next Great Adventures of my (why me?) Life. So stay tuned for the incredibly (WTF?!) itchy adventures of The Great Bed-Bug Menace!

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