Archive for September, 2016

I heard a voice from Bishkek. It was Judeo-Christian, it was Russian:

[Итак] иди, ешь с весельем хлеб твой, и пей в радости сердца вино твое, когда Бог благоволит к делам твоим.

(Ecclesiastes 9, verse 7: “Go then, eat your bread in happiness and drink your wine with a cheerful heart; for God has already approved your works.”)

 

Evolution of the species and

survival of the fittest,

logic,

it makes sense.

I look at the animal kingdom and, indeed,

I agree!

But I look at humans and, sadly,

it is all too clear

that the basest,

crappiest pieces of trash

are the ones who procreate the most.

Survival of the fittest?

Just look around!

Humans, society and this world we have made:

inbred freak show,

sick, sad parade.

 

I was in a good place,

before the devil decided

to get in my face.

Ovechkin did nothing for me.

The superstar that everyone seemed to rave about.

Alas, the game is about a team.

Funny.

I had been to a Capitals game a couple of years earlier.

They were unheralded and unpopular then.

And the game was way better,

the atmosphere more authentic,

the fans who were there, passionate.

This time, by contrast, sucked.

But it was louder,

the locals and media prouder.

Successful team in a fair weather city,

smug,

military-industrial complex contractors.

During a break, the collective became a mob,

whipped up in patriotic fervor,

“USA! USA! USA!” they chanted.

I raised my eyebrows and tightened my lips,

hoping I wasn’t noticed.

It was quite frightening.

 

What’s in a number?

Lies, damned lies and statistics?

Like any other.

A fuzzy feeling of attachment because it’s the date on the preponderant calendar when you popped out of your mother?

Happy Birthday!

Doom, gloom, joy, luck…

Fuck!

Join the club.

All perspective and context.

What’s in a number?

 

Maybe you try to read something into it.

Maybe not.

Perhaps the names are misleading.

But, what’s in a name, after all?

Generally, someone bestowed (foisted) it upon you,

you didn’t choose it,

so why not, therefore, abuse it?

Like faulty genes and dirty hand-me-down jeans.

Screw it!

Like Chekhov implied, if it doesn’t mean something it wouldn’t be there.

What’s in a name?

You and your choices.

(Everything and nothing…)

 

Coming out the Verizon Center, I was accosted by a woman asking for money, small change, anything I had. She was obviously homeless, down on her luck, screwed by the system, fucked by family and friends.

“Sorry,” I said, “I haven’t got anything.”

“You’re a damn liar!” she correctly replied.

Just keep walking, I told myself.

I went down 6th Street. I passed the Chinatown Arch. I passed one Starbucks, soon came to another, and found myself going in, acceding to the inevitable. It was busy and noisy. I waited in line and, when my time came, ordered an Grande Americano. I was served and I found myself walking out with a Grande iced coffee, quite a surprise, but I was willing to deliver myself into the wings of providence, perhaps I needed a cold drink after all.

Leaving the Starbucks, I turned the wrong way, back up 6th Street, but only realized my mistake after 10 minutes or so. I sipped my iced coffee, trying to convince myself that I was enjoying it. I was cold and disoriented.

Eventually I made it to the Mall and found a bench. I sat down and got a PowerBar out of my backpack. A squirrel quickly appeared and jumped onto the bench beside me. Imploringly, the squirrel watched and waited, lurching forward in eagerness. It seemed to think I had something to offer.

 

“What is the truth and what is the bullshit?” the tennis player asked out loud. It was 1991.

He was reading books from a hundred years earlier to try to understand the now and then.

Twenty-five years later he still didn’t know the truth from the bullshit, but he had given up asking.

Those who thought the winds of change would bring all the answers were clearly wrong.

So many different voices speaking all at once on the open frequency range, all claiming to be right, all offering seemingly credible perspectives on why the other was wrong, led to nothing but utter confusion.

The former-tennis player preferred silence. In silence, truth and bullshit don’t matter so much. Even in his new role as a coach he was taciturn. Moreover he eschewed mammon. As such, he tended to be an invaluable coach who gave promising juniors a solid basis in the game but, as soon as the “big time” beckoned, he was jettisoned in favor of someone more appropriate, someone willing to play the game, so as to speak.

 

I heard a scratching noise at my hotel room door. I was alarmed, expecting the worst. I carefully edged myself towards the door, ready: to see the edge of a shiny piece of paper advertising pizza sliding under the slight gap, between the door and the floor. The pictures of pizzas slowly manifested. I raised my eyebrows and picked the flyer up. Someone, apparently, wanted to be my friend. There was a number to call, they promised I’d be happy.

 

And I was all too cognisant of the date.

The memories of perfidy, betrayal and sacrilege.

Never again would I be able to trust,

people (scum).

I found myself remembering a different time in my life. It should have been a golden time characterized by success, happiness and growth. But some things went wrong and life became a horror movie, with no remote control, no stop button.

Memories, inescapable. Like mammaries for a suckling child.

As my favored growling singing puts it: “Every minute of the future is a memory of the past.”

Memories … Sometimes obscured in the movements of the hustle, bustle of the here and now, sometimes obtrusively all-encompassing and bile-fomenting.