Around and around, just for the Zen of it. I cycled around the track, speaking little, swerving to miss the broken shard of glass. 10 times, 20 times, 30 times… Bicircling. Time faded. Once the rhythm kicked in, I was lost in thought. I just can’t remember when or how I lost my way.
That was Zen, not now. A penny for my thoughts? Sartre would call it existential if you think it doesn’t fit. Gandhi would say it’s too violent, but smile just the same. Lao Tzu would say you got no game, punk, and where’s your balance? Vedder would say it doesn’t need to go anywhere. Stein would say “there’s no there there.” Presley would tell you they’ll call it crazy if they don’t understand you. Joyce would say you’re one of us, but that I doubt, as it’s more akin to poetry. Such poetry. And the chorus sings ‘doot doot doot do doot doot doot.’
Nearby, a jackhammer was playing. Electronic beats, pleasantly irregular, as steel chopped up concrete and sent it flying. Safety goggles not included. Rocky percussion with a hint of tin and an imbalance that left one grasping for the right pace. The jackhammer beat sounds better than that electronic autoplay from the club. Someone stage an intervention: intervene on that stage and hand those kids a guitar.
Noise is noise; it takes patience to sort through the rubble and find beauty within. The sound of progress, addition by subtraction, and two steps back as one ground gives way to another. Listen closely and you'll pick out the double-e waterfall in a night of diamonds.
Lucy, where have you gone? Nowhere in sight. I may be a taste eclectic, but definitely don’t do drugs. I need a clear line of sight towards crazy or there’s no deal.
Lost in a reverie, I wrote a new post in my mind. It was about a box of rain and I don’t quite know how to put it. Two steps back and we’re at Fork 20, the last big thing before the next big thing that never came, then onward to the rocks of the promised land if that be our final destination. Such a long, long time I rode around the track, spinning that track in my mind. Music would play to the tide and the Danish girl would whirl.
About the time the moon rose, nature called for a hot beverage, and security locked the gate tight with me inside. Having moonlighted as a teenager in times past, I can climb a chain link, but getting that bike over the fence is a spasm built for two. How high can it bounce? My kingdom for a patch kit.
I’m long past the street noise, lying in bed, recalling the past as I wait for the sandman to strike a chord. Dust me with sand and I’m outta here. To sleep, perchance to dream. Add some lye and boil it to a crisp. No, hotter, and find an elf to work the bellows. Dye the glass and blow me a vase. That jagged piece of green glass at the track kept me swerving behind the drinking fountain, preventing the perfect oval. I will not be denied next time.
Refresh to jackhammers. A tale awaits. Swat the flies first and here comes the worst. Awoken by a terrible noise, I recalled belatedly that my employer had a key to my flat. As daylight swept the broken glass from my dreams, my gaze settled on a vase of rare beauty at the foot of the bed. Porcelain. The Valkyrie had risen before me and now she fished for her undergarments near my feet. She left me to complete my rude awakening to the roar of a jackhammer in the next room.
But all of this was two steps back. Start me up again and let me feel my way to a beginning.
I once worked in Copenhagen, a fair city with a fair maid. One morning, I awoke to the sound of jackhammering in my kitchen. Faux brick floor, but half naked and stripped of its finery, the undergarment was thick concrete. The jackhammer was tearing up the kitchen floor, supervised by two Lego figures in suits and ties. There was a leak in the apartment downstairs and they hadn’t needed to knock; the jackhammering woke me up, and wasn’t it time to get to work?
The gaping hole in my floor began on a Friday and persisted for three days. No shower but the frozen faucet outside. Life continued in unzippered darkness, and I cooked my own meals with no blonde assistance. Meat? Too expensive. Tuna and sour rye from the market. For sauce, you’ll find that V-8 juice works quite well, if a little soupy. My Japanese boss thought a case of V-8 was just the thing for my Christmas bonus. Quickly, it became more useful than two movie tickets.
Thank heaven it’s loaded with sodium. I put that tomato juice to good use as I warmed the can with a cigarette lighter. The drilling in my ears kept up, but the dudes were gone, so no one paid it any mind. And I perched over the abyss, face down like the Jack of Hearts, until I had the notion to order my own jackhammer.
Like a mantra, that music spun again. House beats, house blend, the stuttering roar. Punch through the flooring and I could see the apartment below. Concrete raining down like manna from heaven. I knew she was down there somewhere, but had she lost her way? On the midnight watch, I stared down and realized why she'd taken a hike.
Music remains elusive. But rye manna overcame both the tuna and tomato juice, so there is hope for me yet. As above, so below. The hole was not an end, but the portal to a promised land. More rocks and stop by the gift shop on your way out. I know that in time, if I keep digging, she will appear again amidst the rocks. Melody shines through the madness.
All images are public domain from Pixabay. No references cited here, but apologies to the Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, the Beatles, and probably more for my misuse of their classic rock lyrics, and apologies to jackhammers for likening their sound to electronic music.