Tuesday, December 21, 2010

The End of the Year

Hello dear reader, I can only imagine that you're here out of some sense of obligation or curious as to what I may reveal of my colorful history that usually defines what I recall of my life.
I sit and stare out the plate glass windows of my studio. I occasionally feel like an exhibit in a zoo. The front of my place is a wall of glass that looks into my studio. My living quarters are hidden by unseen doors and undetectable windows. My home would be a fine exhibit in a zoo. I don't mind, I'm allowed the privacy of some sort of anonymity. The people who look in have no idea who I am, what I am, or why I'm here. it works. I in my self imposed exile from a world that rejected me as a child. They in their tiny little lives that will come to little or no significance. Most will end as nothing more then a name on a stone over what remains of their life.

It appears that the there is a hole in the color tube for the outside world. I'm unsure if its because of the overcast sky or the time of year, but the world appears to be a hand colored black and white photograph, the color subtle, almost just a hint of life...just contrast. Variations of gray. The soundtrack of the studio includes screaming guitars and rhythmic base lines, thus reinforcing the contrast of the world...It is the soundtrack of my college career and the time just post. I found one of these streaming radio stations and when asked what I wanted to listen to I typed in "The Cure". I recognize most of what I hear, and like most people I'm able to associate the familiarity of the sounds to an event or occurrence of the time I heard it for the first or second time. And typical of a memory it always plays in black and white. ...The pretty girls now all middle aged women-their perky breasts now pendulous-their smooth skin now loose and showing the signs of time. The Guys I knew that were all attitude, recently grown into their bodies and on the hunt for self realization and to get laid are now old farts without waists but with high blood pressure. The topic of conversation is no longer how polluted you got at the party, what band released a new album, where you can score a bag or how so and so was in the sack, but about prostrates, prescriptions,and periodontal problems. The world is black and white...I see only values of gray with a hint of color to it to remind me that I and it are actually vital and that it isn't a memory. It is the present, a series of fleeting moments that pass by like a parade...as each event turns the corner and comes to view, passes to allow me to experience it and then plunges into memory. The significance of sand passing in grains from one end of a thin passage to another is suddenly not lost on me. I am at the end of my 53rd year. I am cursed with a very sharp and complete memory...I can recall with great clarity most of the moments that passed that define my life. I feel like Billy Pilgrim, One moment I am a child living in the shadow of Catholicism and a smoke stack that spews black granulated waste from the processing of Soda Ash-afraid of Nun's and bully's...the next I'm in the jungle looking deep into the thousands of values of green that lied within, wondering what lay ahead for me in college, the next I'm in High School attempting to talk my recent teenage interest into a kiss under the bag of Mistletoe I'd bought from the band that they were selling to raise money, the next I'm spending Christmas day making the cabinets for my kitchen the first year I'm in North Carolina No longer afraid of anything...one second I'm looking to the blue gray of Dagmar's eyes-her toes brushing my calf; the next, caressing Meggen's thigh wondering if it would last, the next wondering if Debbie was a moaner or a screamer; the next sitting in Christine's parents house as she shows them the candlestick holder that I'd spent 4 days and nights finishing for her-the next looking at the finished piece in front of me, getting that slight chill at seeing the realization of the product of my recent labors....I look across the field of my life...I turn to look out the window. The stark white of the building across the street, the grayed orange and yellow of the bricks, the gray green of the awning, the light gray of the asphalt, the beige gray of the sidewalks...the blue-gray, red-gray, tan-gray of the cars that are momentarily in front of my portal into the universe...rushing about like ants to get all their chores and errands done before Friday when the world will simply stop in preparations for Christmas. On Christmas all business' will be closed, the mall will be deserted, the streets will only have travelers going from one quaint attempt at a memory to another-it will be silent, blessed silence roaring silence. Pictures taken, occurrences will become chemical recipe's in brains- All to mark time. All to make this year significant; to prove that this year counted. I sit and ponder the last handful of grains/moments that will define this year in my future. I need to return to my constant labors...my legacy...my proof that I was here on this earth and used my time adding to the fabric of the universe...

Enjoy the remainder of the year, remember the insignificant things and pray for a better next year then this one.