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

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