Last garments worn, in a culvert, a passage for waste water and rodents, under a road, his filthy body about to be bloodied, his stomach, without injury yet, waiting silently for the 9mm bullet to pierce his internal organs. He was probably aware that he would not be tried,(more) he would be judged by his captors, and they would be unwilling to allow him to try and weasel an escape, or any clemency or immunity.
When a man has escalated to the top of a nation by force , cunning, and blood, is it even a mystery any more why he will always end up hiding in a ditch, a hole, or a culvert? Is this irony/justice at all foretold? Shouldn't the public execution of the many tyrants before him have warned him of , at the very least, where not to hide?
He asked the man that yanked him from his miserable hiding spot, "what have I done to you?"
Definitely not the last words of a man who understood the effects of his tyranny, more like the words of a god-king deposed.
It is perhaps too difficult to see through the glory of that much power, to see past the pinnacle to the bitter end is perhaps moot. Riches are riches, and maybe they all knew that the price to pay for this bloody rise to the table of delights, will inevitably be followed by an ignominious end, tortured and destroyed by those you enslaved. Perhaps it is worth it to them in the end.
For the man whose gun discharged into the tyrants belly, for the man who took the chance for a trial away with a pull of a trigger, well...
I am sure it would be argued that absolute powerlessness, like absolute power, corrupts absolutely. (less)
A spoonful of sugar can be helpful, I experiment often with different analogs to this idea. Ways in which to mix pleasure in with difficult things, unpleasant things, or just mundane, ordinary, and soul sucking things, mostly I am talking about work.
(more) Work is the word I give the activities we have to do, or FEEL we have to do in order to maintain the life we lead. This is obviously not the holistic or zen way to look at work, but it is the way I usually feel anyways.
So for me, in order to maintain a positive outlook, I tend to make the day ahead of me, not some gamut of things that are "necessary" to do, but opportunities to enjoy something more than I would if I was sitting comfortably somewhere... comfortable.
What I mean is, when I am "working" I have a greater appreciation of enjoyment, because it is not the first thing on my mind. The first thing is usually, "ugh", "this sucks", and, a list or litany of motions to go through to accomplish said job.
Motor loops in the brain, boring, and strangely, almost always done better on auto-pilot anyways.
So I think about anything, from conjuring a sense of being stoned or high in some way, closely paying attention to my senses, amplifying things, to, allowing a thought or imagined situation, song, joke, palindrome, etc completely take over my mind, except for the part that is carrying on with it's task of working the body, doing the work.
Why did I write this? I HAD a reason, I hadn't written in such a long time, I know I remembered something that must've made me have to write it down, (like a job, I guess), but I have reforgotten what the reason was.
The tone sounds for the hundred thousandth time today, the local festival has multiplied the frequency of the sound by at least 300 times, under normal circumstances the customers ingress and egress would be working on his last nerve by quitting time, always a 12 hour shift, today, three(more) hours in, he can hardly believe the tortuous power of the noise. The door tone, in the store, a singular tone consisting of three notes, creating a dissonant chord for one second every time, rings out again. (less)
I have been trying to pinpoint your exact location to no avail, so far, it would really help out if you could just tell me the general coordinates, but of course, life is not that simple, neat or tidy. The test serves multiple purposes at once, with every decision(more) I make in the trial and error format, the test reveals more and more about my minds processes, which in turn give a map of my up bringing, which in turn, one might imagine, the environmental elements of that upbringing. Somehow though, the test is said to be able to identify and separate out, the elements of nature and nurture, and therefore able to do the same for those who raised me, as well as the environmental factors that affected them in their youth.
Don't ask me how the test accomplishes this, I assume it is something I would not entirely understand if it was explained. Besides, what matters to me is the same thing that the test is using to figure me out, where have you gone?
I did expect that you would return from the changing rooms in the clothing store, I was patient in it's european starkness, checking the various messaging capabilities of my "phone" in order to discourage the advances of sales associates, it only worked to ward them off half of the time. When I was finally convinced that something was wrong, they were not helpful at all, stating that they only remember ME coming in, and that if YOU did exist, at the very least you were gone now, not in the changing stall. They proved it by showing me every stall.
People have a drive to be remembered, an often fruitless, and mostly pointless venture in itself. For, to be remembered, there must be someone there to do the remembering. There is no guarantee of our longevity, more to the point, in an infinite span of time, all monuments crumble,(more) and all accomplishments are folded into the mantle of the earth, (unless of course the monument is floating in space, in which case other factors dictate how long it may endure, still permanence, even there is not a foregone conclusion).
To be remembered one must leave a mark, or be remarked about repeatedly over time, like in an epic poem. We, all of us, remember thousands of names of unique, amazing, intelligent, sexy, hideous, tyrannical, brave, spiritual, people. Having never met them, still they reside, as an idea, in our minds, slowly aggregating over our lifetimes. Movie stars, political figures, serial killers, mythical men and women, all worth remembering for one reason or another, always those reasons echoing back our own potentials, our own hopes and wishes, for, or fears of ourselves.
Rather than be remembered for anything special that I am, I would hope that instead, I was temporarily remembered for trying to be as many of the positive examples that have been set for us as I could, nothing extraordinary, but inspirational due to my mundane search for a balanced growth.
A pinch of Ghandi here, a strip of Waldo Emerson, and a drop of Thorough there. A healthy portioning of David Yow, with a sprinkle of Michael Stipe, and a dash of Chief Sealth, wrapped in a blanket of Martin Luther King Jr and Don Quixote, a garnish of Buddha and Jesus (of course), and a goblet of Pollock and Worhol, muddled with Hunter S. and his lawyer. (less)
Mill on the crooked creek, engine for producing new things, in an old old place, the surrounding meadows hide oil spills and antifreeze green ponds, with long long grass. The grain of the very wood it is manifested as, the structural poles, planks, crankshaft to paddles, spokes to cotter(more) pins, microscopically burp up dream vapors, constantly exuding a smell of musk and wonder, old old wood. This mill, wicked and wise, rattles in the winds, solid as a forest, a makeshift home for me as much as for the tiny animals that deftly use its spaces. I do not know who lives in here with me. But I can give them faces never the less. (less)
Allergies, we all had them, the whole group, just to different things, Jean was allergic to spores, of the blue mold variety, Trina, of the grey, I was allergic to grass pollen, not sure which kind, but the air would frequently be full of fluff when my eyes and(more) sinuses would revolt. Danny was allergic to peanuts, and his wife, can't remember her name, dust mite fecal matter. Their son, who was with us on this last trip, Marcus, the little shit, just 21 and holier than thou, was allergic to strawberries, like his father, anaphylactic, which the rest of us knew by now from their info sharing, is deadly if the right precautions aren't taken.
The right precautions hadn't been taken, this last trip to the spa the seven of us had made, was a kind of leap of faith. We all left our homes, knowing from the news, that the chaos was threatening to envelope our peaceful neighborhoods. I walked around the block a few times that early early morning, marveling that the flower gardens were still sweet smelling, and the cars were parked reasonably, when just a few miles outside of this, cars burned, homes were looted and set up as ambush locations by the revolt.
The front of the spa was gone, mostly, thrown in a great wide circle of debris across the front manicured woodland. Its concrete footings laid bare, its skeleton stripped bare of its glass, brass, and cedar siding, smoke belched out of the ragged maw.
The mountain framed it perfectly, even now. I looked back at the devastated entrance, yearning for time to turn around, to allow our burned out wagon to be whole again, so we could go back.
I blinked my eyes, each one held a pocket of fluid. Allergies. (less)
Rocks the size of ostrich eggs and fists, clamber to clot the process I am making, the loose sandy soil, what little of it there is, is always pouring back into the hole, slowing my search as well.
I know I buried you around here somewhere, within inches(more), or maybe feet from where I am now, at a depth of not more than three feet, which is where my shovel tip is. But still, I am evaded.
The grey rags of visqueen, torn like flags of a forgotten war, catch the edges of my tool, deep in the hole, frustrating my linear purpose. A broken brown bottle causes me injury, the shards hiding behind an offending rock, slice my dirty knuckles in ambush when I reach to retrieve it.
The ground in a pile, once deep rich brown, like granulated chocolate, has lost its moisture, now a dull tan, betrays no sign of you.
The substation room echos it's size in the buzz of its electrical current. The sound says a lot about this room. It says, it is 75 feet wide, with ceilings 40 feet high, and a depth of 45 feet.
In the corners, at different moments, I use various tool(more)s to free up unused sections of shallow and deep strut, for later use in installing structure, for the new circuits that the client will need in the change of use he is imposing on the space.
The pigeon shit in the corner next to the freight elevator has no overly noxious scent, not until it is stepped on, reactivating its power, which is an unfortunate aspect to this duty, and so therefore spices my alone time with ammonia and industrial particulates. I will wear a mask tomorrow.
The strut rattles and bells as it hits the concrete floor, different lengths have different tones.It is a song against the sound, a song of chaos and randomness, a song of chance.
I revel in the sound's ability to sing away the other senses.