The boat was slowed by the oars, directed efficiently but the solo canoeist, as it nestled upon the bank of the River of Piss and Vinegar. The trek upstream was arduous, and this calm isn’t going to be the last challenge to be face. The water was actually blue at this point. Pale-faced and solemn, he stared at reflection seen in a while, and before asking the Who, What, Where, When, Why; all those were simply answered by the utterance of–
“I think that I’m cursed…”
–as he threw aside the oars and continued walking.
As he walked aimlessly, unsteadily through the brush–there was no easy route in plain sight, he turned and reassured himself, his reflection that he’s getting better.
And the weekend began with a Friday spectacle of watching pedestrians as they walked in serpentine fashions all the while sitting at a computer, drinking strong coffee and black. Perhaps if the earth were to have opened up no one would notice. (Of course they would’ve.) A knock at the window overrides the technologically enhanced advanced atmosphere that plays with an appropriate setting of bass, treble, and a piercing mid tone that had the ability to coerce the yellow out of the grey. The other eventually enters and joins him in catching up, talking adventures of the pursuit of employment and adventures abroad. It’s always fascinating to talk to someone, regardless of their occupation, and their adventures abroad and in countries where the regular person would never consider going. There is a wild land of government, culture, and endless opportunity to be experienced, and getting that firsthand experience is more than necessary.
To find–this moment skips in time a bit–this morning sprawled out in words and pictures of two suggestions that define a trip to Paris and Bruges. The trip listing was found next, and the page was generously folded at the top. With a simple yes, an acknowledgment was made to reserve a spot regardless of who will or who will not be coming.
The morning progressed and time ran out on the white square paper that was resting upon the dashboard. Soon it was time to move and to not look back, because this simple moment is one of many. A helicopter, as entertaining as the concept sounds, wouldn’t be hovering in and down, hooking itself onto the coffee shop and carrying it away. That would be a pointless, messy situation with debris of all shapes and sizes falling everywhere, startling pedestrians and injuring pedestrians as they began to panic. Somewhere on a farm, a chick that is wearing a baseball cap and T-shirt is lounging around as his parents explain–the information would be posted via newspaper–to him that the sky fell in Syracuse, New York.
Beaming red lips send a casual cool blue smile, hiding teeth so white they gleam yellow. This is the appropriate place to stop. That gesture was only needed before moving on to the next scene of the
* * *
At the venue later that night, he found himself surrounded by familiar faces with coated personalities. Whether this was perceived properly or not, it’s not up to the point of making assumptions. The opening would raise money to make this space next on the avenue, getting through the tough time with the getting by with a little help from friends. Familiar faces unveiled their the nets from their faces as they walked by and at the last moment, presenting smiles and hellos.
There was uncertainty whether or not there was heat available to enjoy. Between the swinging front door, it was difficult to determine the fresh arrivals and the settled, chilled. The masquerade approach was only appropriate with a lack of definitive comments. The show must go on, however. The venue is comfortable and perfectly sized for the intentions of gallery and performance space for all visually and audibly artistic ventures. The purpose of the first act was spontaneous-based, and the stage was set in front of what could have been taken as art.
Sound in Motion kicked the set off to slap people in the face. Attention was achieved due to unified individual curiosity transpiring to one gigantic cloud hovering above and around the invisible box. What was going on as these people moved in slow motion, swimming through space with
Those eight took the reigns to get the excitement going, for the festivities to begin, but effort for lighting silence did not resonate as well as intended. The arrivals wanted to catch up with those who preceded their entrance, and noise coagulated effectively to the point where the fishbowl performers swam in frustration, eventually drowning from the boiling cloud excrement noise pollution that precipitated into the water.
But there was music; oh, there was music.
* * *
It’s amazing to feel a sense of tourism upon the temporary personal judgement while entering a niche of the city you grew up near-and-in. It’s similar to time traveling, stepping back into the familiar in unfamiliar fashion. Faces are familiar, but you see them in different lights. The music, the covers are familiar, sung by a band that an effort was made to actually go and see, to actually walk down the road a couple doors and through a tangible one, grabbing the handle and swinging the wooded gate. At one point in life, there probably was consideration to go through the tiny door, the wee one. Some actually tried, and all of those failed.
That door was made for leprechauns only.
The rush of patrons attended for a quick holiday–this would abruptly end with their eyes opening the following morning, and wherever they realized their bodies settled could and would end in relief or panic, but there is guaranteed regret in every sense of the word. The night was purposeful, and his standing next to Woo Girls pressing purchasers generated the familiarity of an annoyance once brushed under the carpet.
Is that really necessary, this did not have to be said since a glare over the shoulder and to the accompanying party was all that was needed. A blatant, “Brah, could you move cuz I’m tryin’ to get a beer here,” escaped the lips of some guy whose hand was outstretched and white-knuckled, gripping his Jeffreson with such an excessive force. Being slammed against the brother and his better half, who was securing the ever hard-to-come-by stool, he continued to look over his shoulder at the tester, and shrugged visibly to successfully shut the latter up.
The closer the set came, the worse the nook of the pub became. The sinking and suffocating feeling felt just earlier in the evening presented itself in another form of dire placement, wearing a different mask than than donned at the masquerade. Yet, within the sea of people and impending panic, the ray of hope came in the form of a hug from arms that had been attached to a pretty face with red lips that hid a casual cool blue smile. This puff of oxygen to stimulate a flickering mind allowed a push and a fallback to occur, carrying weak knees to an open oasis for temporary rehabilitation.
The few minutes were enough for to obtain a second wind, an elevator to the next level of the course. With a pint in hand, he plowed through the congestion to settle in the same spot for the night, adjacent to the Woo Girls.
We thought you left, he was told before giving his explanation of the necessary recourse taken in order to survive the night. The rest of the night was filled with familiar faces and the easing focus on what was going on. A young man approached the brothers, placing his respective arms upon the shoulders of both of them. The conversation took place continued from a handful of years ago with the game of catching up taking up less time than anticipated. The sunglasses wearing individuals who joined were in the mood to mess with people and get weird, and they justified themselves.
The pursuit of women was tricky as it turned out half of the men in the solidified group were single. One of the new guys, the taken one, sat down with the most decent looking groups of girls that entered the pub. These women glowed as if the hand of God literally interfered to increase our chances; this Holy Hand crashed through the ceiling, bearing sand initially, but as the sand cascaded through the fingers, the glowing particles formed this grouping. This was short lived after three lingering parasites sent by the devil himself proceeded to physically edge the soul wing man out, physically taking his seat and glaring; being a peacekeeper and not one to come to fisticuffs, word weaponry, he stepped aside valiantly.
This trio was stereotypical and distinguished in the sense they were typecasts that only evil can present so well. The ringleader wore a black shirt and dark jeans; his product-glazed hair shown like an Italian Staten Island beacon. The third was quiet and stood tall, being the tallest of the group; he took the back seat and followed along, glaring creepily and laughing when appropriate. The second, the goof who thinks he is command, wore red and compensated for his pale form by speaking in projected street slang to show he was somebody not to be reckoned with. Fortunately and unfortunately, considering this second fiddle’s unyielding patience, he would have been the one who was trying the hardest and was ironically the most successful of the three of them. This fellow was the only to take one of the unsuspecting women by the hand and walk with her as if they were at a promenade and not at an Irish pub at midnight.
The Woo Girls traveled to another corner of the bar, and the rest of the evening went smoothly.
* * *
The next morning he woke to egg white beams sizzling upon his eyelids. Outstretching an arm, he practically cut himself upon the textured brittle of the slanted colonial wall. He walks down his brother’s steps. The door presented a snow-covered outside that the clouds suddenly sneezed over within the past couple hours. There was no regret. There was no wishing anything different. There was just a sigh, and the: No, I’m not better yet.
To Be Continued…