Carl reached for his wallet and adjusted the toothpick in his mouth. The toothpick . His eyeglasses shimmered briefly as he turned his head, and adjusted. The skin of his face, now surfaced with small craters like the moon from childhood acne & post-puberty ciggarettes, glimmered from the light hitting his natural oils. His hair is cut short, like a military-style kind of cut, one that would be described as such from someone who is or has never been a part of the military. Carl at this time in his life looks like the older brother of the villain from the movie Terminator. His glasses are very thick but not thick enough to prevent his chararacter from reaching from the past & pulling himself into the present, so to speak, and well, here he is. This is Carl. Say hello Carl. “Hello.” Carl, how are you, how are you doing in the most general of ways. And, if you could, for us, answer this question in the most specific of ways, not as to blend the two.”I’m , I’m not sure what you’re really asking but I’m doing well. It’s my daughter’s birthday today & I bought this here cake for her party. She turns one today, and it’s been the greatest year of my life, & I guess her’s too.” And as Carl finished his answer, specifically that last bit, the glasses shimmered, the face wrinkled, his teeth parted with this grin that was timeless. Like in the movies, how they slow a scene down, they slow the framerate to allow a moment it’s greater worth, well that happened here. Everything just kind of slowed down, almost frozen but not quite. Carl, are you still there? “Yes, I’m here.” Good, I thought I had lost you for a second there. From now on we will speak telepathically, I understand your lips may be hard to move a tthis poiint. I understand too that you’ve got places to be & I sleep to be had. I have to work tomorrow. Do you work tomorrow? “Yes.” Okay, not to get this convaluted with sidetracking, I just want to express my appreciation for the moment we had, though it was more like a witnessing of a moment you had, me being the witness or facilitator to the event. My role being to ask the question, or create the dialogue; your role being to be transparent, at some level of guard down, to access some of the deeper shit going on in your life–then, together, you and I, our role is then to create this partnership of creator & creation, & we discover & share & witness the isolated event and commit it to memory, if what we’ve done or will do is worth it, and as you’ll agree I’m sure, “it was,” it definitely was. Thank you Carl.
“That is mine,” He or She says to the other while pointing, to which we think what actually do we own? Is there anything ours? And we know the attempt is being made to be nice by asking the question. We don’t want to seem rude by knowing the answer, it fundamentally clashing with the principles of the other now on the spot being thrust into a possible revelation. Or what of this attempt, the attempt being made to write a bit, just enough to complete the task, before I go to sleep, me here on my back on the edge of the bed tethered to the strings of the A500 listening to Anthem. We will wait for this to pass. There’s an immense pressure on me right now, and we feel it on my left shoulder & place where this external weight seems to fall & where I seem to carry it. Sounds. There’s nothing good here, not at this time. I might as well practice the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The sentence with all the letters in the alphabet. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. You can feel how dry this is. Is it possible to recover? Yes I think so. Let’s begin. A tall man walks into the room and waves hello at the guests before & underneath him. He is the owner of the establishment. And he wears a smile. He tips his hat, retains the smile, and walks toward the back room. Eyes do not follow where he goes. He goes alone. Nothing is followed. He simply just sees, only ahead. With long arms & delicate hands he turns the knob of a door & opens carefully not to expose too much of what is beyond. Again, no one watches him. They are focused, his guests, on the things going about: a bingo game, a television, some alcohol, a rocking chair or two. They’ve seen him come in before, many times, & all that was expected from each so it would seem is some cordiality between or among those inside. The rule was not spoken about, or even questioned: the backroom was for one man only through which to enter. There was no schedule. He showed or shows up sporadically. Sometimes in the morning sometimes at night, then he disappears into the room. And what if in the room God sat, & no rule ever existed that one man only could enter his chamber, it’s just that all the others were distracted with the things.