Monday, October 09, 2006
Front Yard Foliage
If you walk out my front door and point a camera towards the road, this is what you see. In the winter you can see the headlights passing. In the summer, just the susurrus of the rubber on the pavement, as indistinct as the breeze.
There is a stone bench next to the back door, always in the sun. It needs the sun to warm it now. It is a place to sit and contemplate for an ephemeral moment, your feet on the gravel and your back against the sun-blasted wall. You hear the world whir by. The sun grinds overhead, the meal growing thinner as the calendar passes.
A man's life is like a bucket of water - or a fistfight. You take a bucket of water, and you dump it on the floor. At first, there is a rush, a deluge; it spreads out in all directions, pushing things before it, soaking, scouring and washing. But it soon runs out of energy, and gathers itself into little rivulets, and then puddles. You must gather it up with the mop, and wring it back into the bucket to begin again. Each time, the floor takes its vigorish, and the bucket has less than the last time. The scouring of the floorboards on the mop makes it fray away slowly, imperceptibly at first, the wear accelerating over time as you work it harder to try to glean the same amount you remember possible anyway. Each time it takes longer to mop it all back into the bucket for the next go. The floor is always dirty.
I never dream any more. I think while I am asleep--maybe. Or I lay there dead. There is nothing fantastic in my head anymore.
Oh yes; the fight.
If it's not over immediately -- one man overmatched and beaten before it starts, really -- then the blows rain down in roughly equal measure until you are both near exhaustion. At some point one contender realizes that the other feels exactly as he does, and thinks how easy it would be for he himself to be beaten.
The man who realizes that first about himself, correctly, can beat any man.