the fool’s back pocket…


late nights, time trials & requisite foreboding…
July 6, 2008, 1:28 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

How does it feel to be the last question on a long survey? By the time the question is posed, the subjects seem disinterested with assembling quantitative answers. Whats one more question after dozens of others? Unable to pretend to be something other than what it is, the final question is less a search for an answer than a final barrier before the subject can escape to another task or the next adventure. The late evening is almost a question, but more properly a coda; the brief interlude before the music begins. We are horrified at the proposition of a moment glued into place such as this. Standing guard like some manner of early intention alert system was not mentioned in the guide book. Darkness can respond faster than my ability to distinguish meaningless shadow from vital transference. It’s like I’m blind, but nobody will take my word for it.

Even without this kind of convalescent notation, the fear of purpose first emerges from a hole in the ground before establishing itself as a driving force behind ostensible actions during unanticipated situations. That fear is made of solid stuff; it will never alter its own formulaic tension or respond to logical and prescient arguments. Is it something the average person learns to live with; something that can be discounted with repetition and practice? The hope remains a buoy, a marker of possibility. Late at night, it is the dream of those asleep and a fantasy of those still fighting long ago battles. If vision is a gift then this hope is a prospect. Even without light it remains visible.

Such fantastic notions relocate themselves without regard to hierarchy. In the most temporal manifestation, it is the salve able to calm ragged nerves. Denial of the busted feeling of lost theoretics would be a sham that could be seen through from a mile away, so no time need be wasted on that. All questions are the same intrinsic component parts. The one asked last just suffers from the position it occupies. Standard devotional hymns from the choir. Another batch of late night exuberance rendered powerless by a visiting deity.