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If there is anything tangible to forces beyond our reckoning, when the mind and something larger meet... why is it usually unpleasant? That whole "be careful what you wish" thing... damn if that doesn't have some weight behind it. Last night, I fired off that line about giving up TV. Or, more correctly, living better without it. "Permission granted," say the powers-that-be. To whit: both the amplifier and the VCR are showing signs of meltdown. Correction: the VCR just expired outright. The amp... well, sporadic is more the word. Cutting in-and-out. I don't remember wishing for that. Wouldn't it be nice if trying to do the right thing was as convincingly rewarded? This world is surely stranger than I know. My good deed for the day was volunteering to have Miss Jane's car safety inspected... an annual thing, here. The shop where I usually take care of such things reflects the flavor of my hometown. Blue jeans... Har1eys... hunting stories... stock cars... repetitive bullshitting. That's the status quo. Love it or leave it, or spend half of your time here, and work somewhere else. I forget how much of a foreigner I really am... though this has been my address for most of my walk on this planet. Somehow, as I stood in the queue of about ten others milling around the shop doors, the part of my brain that filters language was just out-of-tune enough that I wondered what words I was hearing. Guttural sounds, barely moving lips, the "uh" sound attached to the end of every word. Mutated english, boiled down to the lowest common denominator. I opened my mouth, I spoke, and heads turned around questioningly... as if I was speaking Urdu or something. I guess the jeans jacket with the Mar1ey and scooter decorations didn't help. I could only think that if I walked away tomorrow and never returned, no one would ever notice. Not too farfetched an idea. So much for being woven into the fabric of the area for generations. Evening came, we decided to travel to Schizo Town (half hillbilly/half DC commuters) for some Ita1ian food to fight off the chill of the Nor'easter. This, at least, took the sting away. Those little islands of different culture have been my liferaft... especially when rations are authentic pollo vino bianco. Me, JohnBoy S0prano. "To the victor, belongs the spoils"... with the harsh "s" on the end of "spoils," a la Bobby Bacala. That's what I was hearing. Not much of a victory, but better than grave wishes granted. |
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