A Brief Respite from the Day-to-day Monotony

What is it that draws a persons attention to an accident? We've all seen it before, and we've all participated in it: rubber-necking. Something about car wrecks seems to grab our attention and not let us go, no matter how hard we struggle against it. Is it, as the cynic in me would suggest, simple schadenfreude (the joy one finds in watching others suffer), or is it something else?

For many of us, life is nothing more than routine and habit. We wake up, go to work, come home, make dinner, clean the dishes, watch a little t.v., and maybe have a couple of drinks before going to bed. Day in and day out, it's the same damn thing over and over, like Sisyphus and his rock. And then one day something completely unexpected happens; some unforeseen event is allowed to unfold before our eyes, and for a brief moment we seem to shed all the circuits and wires of our robotic existence, and we are allowed to live for those few seconds. Even though it didn't happen to us, still our imagination takes flight. What if it was me in that car? What if that truck had reached that car just a split-second earlier? Might someone have died? I wonder what it would feel like to be in a car as it rolls over again and again? All these questions, along with a thousand similar ones, come racing through our minds all at once--half way perceived, and half way unconscious.

And so it is that we find our own humanity during this brief respite from the day-to-day monotony of life.

Bacchian Beauty

He clutched the bottle, like some sacred talisman, tight to his chest as though he would be able to absorb its warming effects by osmosis. It had been four solid days since he had his last drink, and the mere thought of going even one more day was eating him up inside. Putting the bottle back down on his writing desk, he pulled a small silver knife from his pocket, and began cutting the tinfoil wrapper away from the cork. He could already taste the whiskey, as he had been dreaming of virtually nothing else for the last three days. The wrapper now disposed of--discarded on the living room floor--he gently pried the cork from the bottle, listening for that subtle "pop" as the air rushed in to fill the small vacuum. With the patient eagerness of a man relishing the anticipation, he poured the light brown liquid over the single ice-cube that occupied the glass. Solemnly, lovingly, he pressed the top of the glass between thumb and forefinger, and with a delicacy only a true alcoholic could appreciate, he formed a small, repeated circular motion with his hand, watching with joy as the water mingled with the whiskey, producing a magnificent work of art, unbeknownst to the inner echelons of high society and the artists that fill its ranks. Lifting the glass to his nose, he took in the sweet aroma before pressing the glass to his lips. The liquid filled his mouth, rushing over his tongue, and warming his chest and belly. The grotesque multitudinous of life merged and transformed within his soul into a singular moment of Bacchian beauty.

Playful Movements

Meandering light-footedly through paths of fallen leaves and broken twigs,
The body twists, spins, turns and flips in playful movements of joyous jubilation.
The cool autumn breeze blows lightly through the hair,
Picking it up and making it dance like a marionette controlling its own strings.
Rays of light warm the naked skin.
Everywhere there is the feeling of a connection with God.

Just a Leaf

It fluttered down before him; this leaf on its journey to nowhere. A winter dream, and nothing more.

The Wisdom of Kafka

"Like a path in autumn: no sooner is it cleared than it is once again littered with fallen leaves." --The Zurau Aphorisms; #15

We look in every direction, and see before us only the Sisyphean futility of an unrelenting universe. Regardless of how many bills we pay, our desks remain eternally entrenched with past-due notices. Despite our unending number of friends, enemies, indifferent acquaintances and neighbors, we are forever meeting new people. No matter how many days we have wasted or seized, there is always tomorrow.

The wisdom of Kafka lies in his ability to see this futility, not as something dreadful or terrible, but as something akin to autumn leaves, gently falling upon the pathway; to be cleaned away or left alone, solely at our discretion.

I'm Back

Well it's been about nine months now since I last posted anything. I've been off vacationing in my own little corner of hell, and I gotta tell you it's not quite as bad as Dante makes it out to be, in fact some parts of it are really pretty nice. But, having had my fill of the place, I decided to come back to linger a bit longer with you, my dear readers. (Ha ha, just kidding. Nobody actually reads this tripe.)