drrieux

If you read this then you deserve two gold stars...work in progress

Light slips through the cracks in between the Venetian blinds creating various geometric shapes along the expanse of the blank texture coated wall. The open window allows the soft breeze from out side to pass through these blinds and their projection begins to dance and twirl on the wall much in the same fashion as pirouetting ice skaters on the surface of a frozen lake. As the wind dies, so too does the extravagant display of gentle movement and the linear Images resume their horizontal station. An insect can be heard outside furiously buzzing and slamming its exoskeleton adorned body into the screen. What is its reasoning for persisting so? Or a better question does it even reason? Continually smashing itself against the unmoving obstacle until the exertion wears the poor things energy supply to just enough to perch itself somewhere and continue the endeavor. The screen never budges anymore than the flex created by the impact of the insects body. At one point the insect will die and despite its best efforts that screen will still be there standing defiant, impervious to the best efforts of such a low species. Beyond the seemingly futile struggle the sound of children laughing can be heard along the patter of bare feet along the concrete sidewalk. These sounds draw closer until they pass right under the window sill and down the path, their pitch descending as they drift farther away. It appears that Mr. Doppler was right. Another sound can be heard in the distance, it is the sound of much commotion and jovial conversation. Apparently there is a get together down the road, and these playing childrens parents are participating in all the binging involved. Who is watching the children? Right now it seems to be of little concern to those parents who are too busy fulfilling their own personal gratifications. Dont they remember what happened to the little girl two years ago? That awful day, much like today, when the children were laughing and chasing each other about throughout the neighborhood while their parents inebriated themselves. A certain little girl must have not have been paying attention when she was trying to avoid being captured by the boys and a car coming around the corner captured her instead. From all appearances one would assume that she was fine because there were no visible signs of injury besides a few cuts and bruises, but an impact such as that can have devastating effects on such a young body. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully, a clever smirk on her face as though she was dreaming of the boy chasing her still, but there was no movement in her narrow breast. Her essence had escaped from her upon impact and dissipated into the atmosphere. It was quite some time before the parents could be located and notified of the condition of their child. Like any normal parents, they were devastated, not only by what had happened, but by the drivers apparent responsibility for the accident. Yet responsibility seems misplaced in this circumstance because of a few facts. For one the parents were not attending their child, for another their house was the one on the corner and they had allowed the hedges in their yard to grow to a point where visibility was considerably reduced. True the driver should have recognized this and slowed, but not all of the blame was his alone. And here they are again doing the same thing, and the rest of the parents are allowing their children to do the same thing that that little girl was doing just two yeas ago. Maybe the human mind isnt so different from that insect outside the window.
Rising up to look about the dim room the light peering in through the blinds provides subtle hints of objects scattered about. Nothing of real importance, just the essentials for comfortable living: a bed, a desk, a laundry basket, a chair, and various other useless items. The only things that hold any real value are the books stacked high along one wall of the room. Organized in a most meticulous fashion, they are categorized, alphabetized, and kept dust free and clean. But these cherished items are far from in peak condition. A certain affinity exists for worn down and well used types of readings; books that hold stories of their readers as well as what the author placed in eloquent words on the page. Worn bindings, torn pages, stains, folds, handwriting and other novelties create an image of previous readers, their reading habits, and perhaps even their lifestyle. Even some discolouration of the covers can show where volumes have been stored and whether they were kept solely for appearances or their literary worth. An example of this is a group of works that has a particular pattern on it. When all 8 of the volumes are lined up one next to the other in ascending order there is the image of a cross along the spine of all the books, where the cross itself is much darker in colour than the surrounding areas. This leads to the belief that these were placed next to a window and left for an extended period of time, where the glow of the sun had the opportunity to exert its bleaching power and dilute the dark maroon colour of the books. Another conclusion could be drawn that these books were not used very often, and may have been kept by an individual who merely wanted to show that he had them and give the appearance of being well-read. Yet this could be hasty because after all many people do enjoy reading during the evening hours, which would leave the books in their position day in and day out. It is just these sorts of speculations that make owning such things a grand experience. One has the opportunity to create his own story about the previous owners, making them a villain or a hero, and sending them on many harrowing adventures. Many probably dont think of it this way though. Most probably just see it as a worn book, ravaged by the sands of time. These people dont understand the history of objects, and the meaning that they hold for some. Someones ragged old book was someone elses most prized possession. Why cant everyone understand these facts?
As the wind from outside gusts the blinds far into the room cascading sunlight across the floor, jetting its way towards the books. When the light shines on them the one new printed book can be seen. Albert Camus The Stranger stands out brightly coloured among the dull, faded, surrounding titles. This particular story needed to be an original copy, with no one elses memories embedded within it, the starting point for the story of the book itself. Every reader needs at least one of these types of books. Though one can add to his previously owned books history, knowing the beginning in at least one can be quite comforting because one might not know where it will go from there. This particular novel makes for a good starting point because the authors ideas come out so vividly within the story, and lend to the varying interpretation of different readers. Therefore the story possibly affects the readers life in a way that they change what theyre doing, maybe even who they are or what they believe. Without the essence of someone else within the book absorption of the authors words becomes that much easier, at least for those readers who delve into this historical idea. It is true that many can gleam the ideas from the book without the consideration of anyone who previously encountered the copy. Ignoring the notes on the sides, the tear stains, the folds on the page and the underlined sections, they pay no though to any of these substantial features significance because they hold no bearing on their lives. Does this limit the reading experience? In some respects perhaps it does, but on the other hand this way may allow for an easier way to become totally immersed within the story, in this way the background of the book just clouds what the author is trying to say. Perhaps it only depends on the novel because sometimes a well worn book will have a more interesting story than the writing itself. In the end these are all trivial facts that only a small percentage probably thinks about, what really matters most is what the reader thinks, but how can those who dont know about these little ideas if they are never exposed to them. For some it may be that they do not even know what they are missing out on because no one has lit the spark underneath their curiosity to let them know that there may be more that they are missing.
The blinds resume their steady flowing position once the wind dies down outside, and the sudden brilliant glow that lit up the room dissipates back into the shards of light peeking through the slats. One of the beams skimming through falls on a picture on the wall. A picture of a girl standing alone in a park looking the sky with her hand shielding the blinding rays of the sun from her squinting eyes. Her hand points to something off of the picture with determination to catch someones attention, but also with an affectionate tilt of her arm. She is dressed rather shabbily, but comfortable. The clothes hang loosely from her slender frame, and her sweater is slightly off kilter, revealing one of her shoulders. Not ones typical idea of a pretty girl, but beautiful in an unconventional and undeniable fashion. Even though the bright gaze of the sun burns her eyes and cause contortions in her expression, her smile stands out from beneath her hand like a red rose on a snow bank. No ordinary smile, but one that sucks the breath right from the lungs, one that mesmerizes in a single glance and one that cannot be ignored. Her stance is slightly crooked with her toes pointed inwards towards each other, pigeon-toed, giving the appearance of discomfort or nervousness. Was the girl aware of her picture being taken, or was this a candid photo of a random stranger? The truth was that the picture was found lying on the street before anything to scar and distort its artistry, so nothing could be gathered about the background of the image. The only thing that could be learned from it was the writing on the back that said, La petite femme, tu es tres belle What do these words mean? Was it a lover of hers or just a wandering admirer? These are questions that are almost impossible to answer in any accurate fashion and can only be speculated on. Is it possible to love someone just from a picture? From the image a life is created that can be entirely inaccurate, but wholly satisfying. It is true that one can speculate much about a persons personality by their body language, dress and appearance. For this particular petite femme, she is perceived to be of a lower-middle class background, she is demure and soft-spoken. She doesnt have many friends because she doesnt trust many people and fears their judgment, but she likes many people from afar. Her favorite past time is to go to a park and watch groups of people converse or participate in activities. She likes to pretend that she is there, part of the group, laughing along with them because she lacks the fortitude to actually attempt to speak with them. Sometimes she is caught laughing along with them by passersby who take her for being slightly off balance. Most of her time is spent at home reading, where she can travel off to far away places, meet interesting people, and go on exciting adventures without ever needing to subject herself to the torment of leaving the comfort of her home. This is the story that has been created for the girl in the picture because it suits her, and brings comfort in the idea that there may be others who think this way, a mirror image and a companion.
Apparently this sudden upright position was a mistake due to the after effects of severe discomfourt and loss of vision. Falling back to the pillow with a satisfying sigh as the world recollects itself, but just as quickly dissolves into a warm fluid dream state. Random encounters with people throughout a lifetime occur giving incoherent messages that are never to be remembered, but hold the answers to all of the questions to be asked. Such a cruel joke placed on mankind, to be given all of the evidence, the facts, and the reasoning for every question imaginable, but to have it just out of reach because of the waking moments deletion of these mid-slumber awakenings. This could be compared to a physicists finding of her grand unified theory, and placing it strategically onto a chalkboard only to have it erased during the nightly cleaning. Yet the human mind is totally ignorant of the absorbed facts during the night and thus has no reason to dismay as our struggling physicist. Wandering through the dream like a lost child in the woods, so much information is thrown upon the burdened soul that it is a wonder one mind could bear such a bombardment. Suddenly there is calm and all of the incessant voices cease, and the surrounding space dims to a complete darkness. A figure slowly makes its way out from the shadowy infinity glowing seemingly of its own accord. It is the silhouette of the pictured and framed female walking forward staring at her shoes and chewing her lower lip in concentration of some great mystery. She looks up and her lips begin to move forming the words before they are spoken. Her voice drifts out like a cool breeze on a summer afternoon, floating and making its way across the empty space, O tre-tu m'amour? Pourquoi m'as-tu trouv encore? Placing her head back down in its contemplative position she turns and makes her way back off into the darkness, chasing her is futile because she exists somewhere far off and out of reach. Then there is nothing again but solitary confinement in an endless void of nothingness. Some say this is what hell is like, no fire and brimstone, just endless nothingness and eternal contemplation in the absence of the creator. Such an idea would truly be a most unbearable torment due to the human need for companionship; even the most lonesome hermit would like to have someone around to exchange ideas with. The desire for something to happen to end this silence is quickly subdued as the battery of information resumes, and those random images return. This scenario is almost like a brainwashing session involving taped eyelids and a screen projector, without any possibility for escape. No happy medium is ever reached in these dreams, two polar extremes continually occurring in intervals that seem endless. This makes sleep a most undesirable activity (or lack there of), but ones eyes can only remain open for so long before they give way to the heavy weights hooked onto them with each passing moments. And then there is relief in the form of equally paced violent tonal bursts from the electronic alarm clock across the room beckoning to be shut off.
The Daylight has faded and the children have returned to their homes safe and sound this time. With the sun now sleeping safely below the horizon the insect retires until the morn to begin its conquest once again. Everyone is sleeping soundly in their beds with meaningless dreams and nightmares to pass the time. The sounds of the world outside have died out and silence is the prevailing attribute to the cool night air. The distant chirping of the nocturnal crickets singing their tune out in a nearby field is the only sound causing a ripple in this silent pool. What an existence to be an insect such as a cricket. Resting during the days in a dark corner of the Earth, and rising at night to sing its tune to the world as if saying I exist! I am here! Only to have its life snubbed by a roaming amphibian, reptile, or various other night crawler. All at once the chirping ceases. Apparently one poor cricket did not survive the night and became consumed by something higher up on the food chain. The others look on in horror as their fellow chorus member is devoured, but after the terror fades they continue with their tune. What is higher on the food chain than humans? Surely there must be something because like space and time the pieces can be broken down into smaller and smaller pieces, as well as expanded on into infinity. By most standards humans are considered the apex of the species, but something must consume humans (besides the occasional feral, bear, or various other animal attacks). Perhaps it isnt a physical consumption like that of the cricket, but a spiritual and mental consumption. What being could accomplish such a task? This seems to be a much too close minded question. The trials of life can consume a person. The heartbreak, the misery, and all of the other drudgery that life throws the way of the average individual can consume him. At the other end, things like power and money also consume a person by bending her to their will. Such things many dont consider because of the standardized view, but looking into the faces of people one can see how their lives are slowly torn away from them and devoured by some unseen force. This is the reason for this late night rendezvous, while other sleep someone must work for the world never sleeps, but continues in an endless cycle. In particular the possessions of large conglomerates must be protected diligently so that they can continue to feed off of the lives of their peons. God must be a pessimist because the world seems to drift farther and farther into oblivion without signs of recovery. As with any situation not everything is bad all the time, but it seems to be on a downward track. Then again maybe it is humans who are pessimists and propagate that attitude, which in turn drives everything farther down. A lifetime of struggle and constant labour until the bitter end where nothing is left but to decay to the point of no return, and then there is relief. A final release superior to anything imaginable is this last breath of air, where some say the soul leaves the body measuring a total of 21 grams according to some statistics.
Turning to face the dark room, and acquire a dingy pair of jeans and a t-shirt for the habitual ritual of strenuous late night physical activity. Shipments come and go knowing no time of day, they are constant due to the changing time zones causing alternating launch dates and times. Crates and boxes of all different shapes and sizes arrive from different locations throughout the world. A childs toy that was made by another child in some poor country on one of the Asiatic islands travels more miles than the either ever will in their life time; it passes through countless numbers of hands until it arrives onto the store shelf of some department stores shelf to wait to be plucked by a pleading child who will play with it for a week, and then forget about it. Meanwhile at the toys source the builder child will toil over another set of toys for a few cents a day in hopes of helping to feed the family. Seems like a sad story that one would hear late at night on an infomercial, but unfortunately it is all too true. What is it like to be a young child who should be receiving an education, but have to work in order to put food on the table for the family because the extremes in financial prosperity are so far off? This kind of life is what attracts so many people to the ideals of socialism or communism. An equal pay for every family, a plot of land, and everyone contributes to the greater whole of the community. Sounds like a utopian civilization. The only problem is that humans by nature cannot maintain such an ideal because it seems most everyone wants more than everyone else or just wants what someone else has. Thus the power struggle begets the entire system and it collapses. If capitalism doesnt work and neither does communism, then what will? It seems this question is unanswerable. So the daily grind must continue because the current location advocates a capitalist way of life, and in order to survive one must conform. A set of appropriate clothes are easily accessible, and quickly put on as the punch-in time is rapidly approaching. Outside the air is cool and crisp and there is a slight breeze rustling the leaves on the trees. The sky is completely clear without even a trace of clouds. This night is moonless due to the rotation of the earth with the orbiting of the moon, so the stars shine brilliantly in the sky. Certain constellations, like Orion, can be seen due to the time of year, and the staple of them all, the big dipper, is high in the north. Because of the closeness to the light pollution caused by the city lights, the painted clouds of the Milky Way, as well as countless more stars, cannot be seen. This is a disappointment, but one that must be suffered through because this location is where the work is. Stopping and breathing in the night air while staring at the sky becoming lost is quite easy, but it is through sheer force of will that the car is started and driven off down the road towards those sky polluting lights.
Silent as the tomb of a long dead memory encapsulated in the furthest regions of the cerebellum, the car ride is agonizing because of the labour to come, but relieving due to the chance to ponder so many questions. Along the road there are no street lights, the glow of the headlights fills the dark void in front of the vehicle, showing the yellow painted line down the middle of the road to keep people from swerving off course. The shining horizon is lit up by city lights in an eerie purple glow fading to the inky black void as the sky climbs higher and higher. A metaphor perhaps on this existence here on the Earth, looking up there is a desolate expanse littered with widely dispersed specks called stars, but down below is a vibrant glow of life and happenings. Then why does it seem so dead down here and so alive up there? Looking at the sky during prehistoric times must have been a sight because there was nothing to hinder their brilliance from the eyes. Painted in various shades of purple, red, and blue with a black background, the night sky would have been marvelous. It is too bad that things like that are largely only imagined for most people because of the rapid expansion of civilization. Traveling down the road, it becomes brighter and brighter as the city approaches, a sprawling metropolis complete with everything the consumer needs. Sex is available for purchase on most corners, as well as drugs, and one can severely inebriate themselves to the point of unconsciousness, such is the existence of so many unhappy people. There are so many warnings prohibiting such activities, but it is a continuing occurrence and one can only ask why would people keep up their self abuse? Perhaps it is to escape the drudgery of their day to day lives. Unhappiness can have a profound effect on the weak willed, and absolution seems to be the most enticing offer presented. Many blame their God for making their lives miserable because they need a scapegoat, and are not willing to recognize their own faults. God cannot be blamed, it is merely the creator of all things, and, though it exists in all things, it endowed humans with free will to make their own decisions. Just because God doesnt come and fix every persons problems doesnt make them its fault. This is a truly human aspect, not willing to accept blame for mistakes. Why is this so hard? Why dont people realize that by accepting their mistakes they can then learn from them for future reference? One makes so many mistakes in life, and there is no time for trivial dwelling. This is just one of the recurring ideas that the late night drive can provide. Is it the silence and loneliness that helps initiate these spiteful thoughts, or is it the world itself seeping through the pores within the cool night air that passes through the open window. A hand extended outside the window provides so many interesting thoughts. The wind dresses itself around the hand, surrounding it, holding it, and moving it in any direction it wants. Passing between the fingers and cooling the sweaty palms, it exists and yet doesnt exist; it is there, but it isnt. There is only the effect of the wind, but no real evidence of its existence. Such a beautiful idea, the wind, one can attempt to describe it, draw it, or picture it in their minds, but there is never a clear image because it exists and doesnt exist at the same time. The wind is somewhere before the beginning, but after the end. It flows through and around all things. It is God.