Friday, September 7, 2007

the dichotomy of plant genitals

Another morning in the dog park. Another lonely morning in the dog park. Sitting here on this rustic bench contemplating why my life is so opaque. Why I feel so lost and somber marveling at the melody of the fall breeze against my black hair and tanned skin in exchange for the summer sun. And I can see the grass changing colour; the leaves slowly dying. Little spurts of sun peeking through the clouds but only for a few minutes at a time. It’s September and the dog owners are less and fewer today. No more morning canine support groups and stick parties for these masters. Kids and teens are back to school parading there latest fashions and fads, trading stories, spreading rumors. I feel compelled to move thinking about all these bohemian ideas, but as a bike courier the thought of cycling at 8am is far and senseless. Soon I’ll be moving all day at top speed and with that rational, I’ll take another ten minutes to enjoy my coffee and cigarettes and grin at these invisible docile dogs and there masters in silence.

I’ve been plagued with a slowish mind these days. I mean, I’d like to think of myself as a Petit-bourgeoisie intellect and a decent public speaker, but lately there has been a slight hesitation in my speech, the best part of a stammer, which sometimes lends fresh charm to the stalest sentence. Sort of a smart idea getting pulled aside by the intellect police for a routine rubber glove inspection. Sorry sir, no embryonic beliefs through here. You’ll have to do better than that. Step away from the vehicle sir. Now bend over.

I take a puff of my toxic revival and stare at the overcast sky which take no shape. The park is surrounded by these country donut brown coloured complexes and I can see the bedroom lights flicker on and off. I imagine you would wake up, drag yourself out of your Swedish equipped existence, lock yourself into your placid walls, cubicles if you will, for eight hours, and inside these confines you feel safe and ignorant. This is your life and it’s ending one minute at a time. Corporate life as some may enthusiastically declare. You pay your taxes, gossip about last nights sitcoms and standby while your retirement plan matures. Then it’s off to Oakville or Grimsby or St. Catherine’s where your little house on the prairie awaits for you to wrinkle, then become flesh and dust. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And maybe I got it all wrong. And maybe it’s all just a terrible tragedy. Or maybe it’s all apart of this surreptitious fabric of life that I can’t seem to attach myself to like worn out Velcro.

I once lived symbiotically with this suggestion of the Velcro Corporate Life. I sold cars for a reputable automobile conglomerate and it seemed to be a job that I had a niche for. I was indisputably a cold-cut-fat and happy person, made a truck load of money, and was carefully planning out the established retirement sarcophagus groundwork. To my parents, I was a success. To my girlfriend at the time I was the perfect catch. And to my peers, I was an inspiration. Not in a Tony Robbins approach, but more of a Glen Garry, Glen Ross sort of way.

But it took a sledge hammer to the cranium (literally speaking of course) to jerk me back to dry land. I guess the devastating rational of a jeering blow to the psyche can do that to you. A spontaneous shift out of ones normality. A juggernaut switch blade sheering through my parallel universe only to present a path; to immobilize and extract the sense in reason.

more to come…maybe