Swimming

After that funeral . . .

The Old Man's Brother was so different from the Old Man. One was earnest, determined and persistent. The other clever, playful and just as persistent. Strange. Whatever.

Confused, bitter, tired--I went back to the smoke-filled coffee shop. Existence was relegated to the sea, and its surface, comprised of thoughts, smoke and text:

Swimming in a sea of text and smoke, coming up for air (on occassion) to imbibe laughter and drink; treading water amidst the current of change--no, vertigo; lost in a world of endless and meaningless ideas; surfing the waves of the surface all of us share, and soaking up the sun when, and when it does not, shine. I don't want to exist here anymore--not on the deserted island, lost at sea on a small rock in the ocean--no this is worse. Lost at sea, relegated to existing at the interplay of the endless currents, breezes and climate of that cold, alluring water. No rock. Nothing solid. My limbs are tired from treading. My breath is gone. My chest burns.

Yet, I am drawn here. The Old Man and his brother both--they both knew. They were drawn here too. I want to leave--but where else is there to go? I want to escape, but every time I open my mouth--speak--I'm brought right back and faced with the futile mission of moving past.

. . . Smoke and laughter, those will have to do for now.

The Old Man's Funeral

A few days or weeks or years went by, and that old man died. Part of me was torn. I didn't know him that well. I hadn't spent that much time with him. But, for some reason he was deep inside me--somewhere--creeping, crawling, disturbing. At his death, I felt vulnerable and depressed. Yet, part of me was still stung by his pretentiousness. How could he take himself so seriously? Swallowing the ocean? Everyday? Who does he think he is? How could he consider himself so existentially important? What drove him there everyday? Overall, it plagued me--not a question, but the question--why? why? why?

Upset, confused, disheveled--I went to his funeral. Something strange struck me as soon as I walked in to that dilapidated old social hall: half the people were of a different generation than me. They were his contemporaries. Some were at the end of their lives--mentally and physically weary. Others were still very alert. They were robust. They didn't smile, but they were proud. They had the looks of those that tried--that attempted--that believed. It was easy to see that some did so naively. Some did so because they didn't know any better. But, some had the look of the Old Man. Some of them grimaced while they laughed and thought while they listened. Strange.

The other half of the room look much like me--young, precocious, ratty and disheveled. Most smoked ceaselessly and rambled on and on about cigars and the breath of life. Boring. Others stood in silence, trying to fit in, but not really. Who are they? And how do they know the Old Man?

I walked over to the bar, more confused now than ever. Muttering to myself, I leaned and sipped my Jack and Coke. 'Ocean, shore, bullshit, all of it' I sipped and muttered. And then it happened. An Old Man in wearing the shiniest, cheapest jewelry all over his person, wearing an incredibly gaudy jacket and smoking a cheap cigar, put his hand around my shoulder and told the bartender to get me another. 'So he got you?' he said. 'What?' I replied, intrigued, but wary at the same time. 'He got you with all his business about the ocean, and swallowing it, and trying. And now you are bothered--confused--bottled--and trapped. You are haunted by the desire to try, but frustrated by the hopelessness of it all.' Angry now, I took his hand off mine and tried to walk away. Stopping me, he pulled me close and said, 'Look, my brother didn't get it. He was caught, with all these other fools our age, in a dream with no reality. Let me tell you something--the answer, the key, whatever it is you are looking for--is not in swallowing that ocean everyday. It is not bearing the weight of the cold seawater as it burns your throat and holds you under. No, son. The key isn't subsuming it, it is playing on the surface.

Listen, you go down to that shore tomorrow, and the next day . . . and instead of doing what my naive old dead brother said--instead of killing yourself for it all--you find something to float on, a raft, a surfboard, a piece of wood, anything. You find something to float on and you manuever, manipulate and enjoy the surface of the water. Somedays it will be cold, others glistening in the sun; somedays it will be clear blue so you can see the fish below, others brown with the stuff of life. The point is not in figuring it out, the point is realizing that the movements, the shapes, the waves, the tides--all of them move and shiver endlessly without anywhere to be. The surface is all there is and you can ride it as long as you like. ' And with a kitsch wink, he shuffled off to pull the old biddies who had come to mourn his brother's death.

Come Close

Come close. Come here. Let me tell you why you are amazing. Let me make your day. Come here, come close. Let me tell you all the good things you forgot about you, all the small things that go unnoticed, all the unique things no one ever takes the time to alert you to. Let me inform you why this world needs you and why it would be worse without you. Come, let me tell you why there is no one else in the world like you and why you'll never be repeated. Come, even if you don't want to hear it. That's okay. Come anyway--I can joke, or be silly, or embarrass myself. I do tricks. I tell stories. As long as you smile. As long as you laugh. As long as you leave the room feeling ten times better than when you arrived. As long as you walk away wanting to breath more than anything. As long as . . . you don't get too close. That could be problematic; that could make things difficult. Yes, please come. Please come, but don't get too close and whatever you do, don't _______. That would really be a mess. See you soon.

The Old Man, the Coffee Shop, the Shore

I met an old man once; one at the end of his life. He told me a secret. Come here he said, come close and listen: "Here's the secret. Wake up each day--don't worry how you feel, how tired, how exhausted, how happy--wake. That is the first step. Then, walk to the shore and watch the sunrise. Don't go with anyone. Don't speak. Just watch. But, don't watch as if you are watching a screen. No, watch as if you are in the screen. And then, when the sun is just over the horizon, the signs of a new day fully bloomed and the people beginning to scurry about, then go down to the water. Let shock of the immersion set in for just a second. Then, bend down and swallow it--the ocean; all of it. And, this is the key--don't drown. Feel the heaviness, allow yourself to be overwhelmed, get to the point until you almost can't stand the absence of breathe--and don't drown. Drowning is bad. After, walk home silently and be. This the key son, swallowing the ocean every day without drowning." I told him he was crazy and deserved to die alone.

Walking now, perturbed, angry, disillusioned. And, thinking. 'The ocean. Stupid man. Spent his days, his worries, his breaths, caring enough to swallow that ocean every day. Cared enough to walk down there every day and take it all in. Cared enough to take it in and then to live the day. Stupid old man.' I resolved that he could take the cares and the ocean with them to his grave. I would have no part. I would waste no more time.

That night, I went to the smoke-filled coffee shop.

And, then, it happened . . .

The next day, bewildered, tired, empty, I rose. I staggered to the shore and stared. No thinking. No thoughts. Just silence, peppered with the crashing of waves on that goddamned shore. They kept coming; I kept staring.

Memory

The nice thing about memory, is that it is always infused with elements of fantasy, idealism or wishful thinking . . . Some are concrete. Some are inescapable. But, it seems like the good ones are flexible and while they remain past, are able to, at times, to open spaces, worlds, openings for living in the present/future. Windows? No. More like retroactive pile drivers, able to breakthrough hard material when and if called upon.

That said . . .

'Do you remember? Do you? The boy with the books, coming down the stairs, one eye, as always, on the books, the other, as always, on the girl; the magnetic, adorable girl. Simple, wan't it? A boy chasing and a girl chasing back. Do you remember? The boy with the smile, and the girl with the eyes. The nerves, the hand holding, the walks. The stars, the prayers, the tears. The trying, wishing, hoping. Then, the world was made of looks, hands, smiles, and steps, both small and big. At the time, it seemed like a whirlwind--a chaotic swirl. But, now, it seems so simple. I remember. I remember the ice cream. I remember the parking lots, the playgrounds, and the ball games. I remember being safe. I remember feeling home. I remember the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--following you. I remember, the stairs--taking steps--climbing up and down--being followed. I remember green eyes and first kisses. I remember bad films and a crick in my neck. I remember the sunrise, the sunset, and everything in between. '

I remember . . . As long as you do too, then the present/future is still somewhere in those simple memories; fantastic, idealistic, wishful or not.

Sitting in the corner of a smoke-filled coffee shop, watching in silence as life slips by once again, my heart beating with the vapors of meaning evaporating into the endless play of images, people, and memory. Watching grown-ups pretend they aren't children, as we careen through the rubble of what was never simple, or sensical. Writing thoughts that reflect the cynical and semi-hopeful feelings of a pretender trying to make sense of the mystical, the commodified, and the inhumane. Drinking caffeine laced thoughts to get through the night of logos, slogans, and ads. Dancing to the beat as our existence floats--no, crystallizes--into photos, videos, and tattoos that will define the illusion that is to become our memory and existence.

And, then, it happens. While the smoke still in the air--floating in waves of creativity never before seen, never after repeated; while aimless conversations go on, perpetuating the endless flow of endless information; while lurkers sit as open-air voyeurs, watching others to make sense of themselves; while cosmopolitans desperate for attention sit legs crossed, face shiny, physique seductive; while workers work; while consumers consume--the lights are turned off and it is time to go home. The neon doesn't even dim--no, it just disappears. The buzz of the flourescence doesn't simmer, it simply ceases.

And, then, it happens. The identities created in this lit interior--this 'dimly lit place'--go dark. The endless play is revealed to be nothing more than . . . ending play. The 'people', now unabel to see one another, have no means to make sense of what was always non-sensical. The 'people' recognize in one moment that they have no memory of what existence was like in the light, and in the same moment, forget what they were thinking of. Yes, the surface disappears and there it is not time to go home, not time to move on, not time to try something new. No, the surface disappears and there is nothing more. The dancing is not even a vapor. The smoke not even a memory. The images not saved on a hard drive. The tattoos obliterated along with the body.

Where to now? Not home. Not here.

There you are, running. Moving. Rushing. Somewhere to be, and it is urgent. Your face bears the desperation and your movements signal how important it is. You are so vulnerable; so open.

I watch. I watch wishing I could help. Wishing you didn't have to rush anywhere; that you were alright, or calm, or happy, or . . . I watch, feeling sad that you are so vulnerable and that I can do nothing. I watch thinking that you are beautiful and deserving and that the last thing you should be is hurt, dissapointed, or betrayed. In this way, I watch wishing I could be your hero.

But, I have tried that before. I have tried and it doesn't work. I can't save. I can't even really help. No, it seems I am frozen watching, but no more. My efforts are mixed, weak and poisonous.

Why do I feel so helpless? Why am I so selfish, so deluded, so self-centred to think that I could help? To save?