Bare feet on stone, toes gracing the air, the young man looked out into the darkness. Below was the soothing sound of the river. Behind, cars went by heedless. His hands were outstretched, one on the lampost on his right, the other feeling the night air, trying to grasp from the darkness some form, some feeling.

A smile spread across his face and his resolve became set. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“Yes, hello operator,” he said quietly into the phone. “I am going to jump off this bridge. It’s not very high and I don’t want to die. In case I’m hurt, please send someone over. Thanks, goodbye.”

He leaned down and set the phone down on the bridge–liking the idea that he might somehow be able to get it later. He looked over his shoulder at the incoming traffic and waved, a big smile spreading across his face. Then he let himself fall into the darkness towards the shallow river.

~

He took his hands off the keyboard and glanced around his apartment. What insanity was this that he had just written?  Why would anyone want to leap off of a bridge, to perform an act associated with suicide without the intention of suicide?

He stood up and gathered his big blanket around him. He stepped out through the screen door in the back. He circled the large tree that stood in the back then headed for the larger patch of grass. This he also circled for a moment before simply falling over, his large comforter rubbing into the grass. A few minutes later he was asleep.

~

Why? Because I could. Did I or will I do either of these things? No, I am too scared. Why am I too scared–that is the question. What is it that I am afraid of–that we are afraid of that makes these two things absurd. I want to continue this to contemplate on this very question. Keh, absurdity, insanity–whatever.

And this is what I shall publicly envision this to be: a writer (obviously not me, of course) who is full of eccentricities (like taking showers in the dark) that are meant to help him control and find meaning in life finds himself writing of a person who is completely devoid of meaning, such as the person in the first scene above. Go from there.  Many smiley faces

Uh, I just saw a cockroach. Got to go kill it because that is what we do with cockroaches.  If I were to eat it, that would be for mere shock factor. The absurdities I am talking about are the ones that balk convention but not for the sake of shock. You don’t joke about suicide.  Perhaps setting the cockroach free–that would be the sort of absurdity the writer would do with some saying about the value of life and the absence of disdain for living things. The person he writes of…would probably not care much about the cockroach. In actuality, both of the actions above would be ones that the writer’s character would do. And its time for me to stop elaborating now. This is enough for me to go on later.

Here are three clips that I’ll be using for a lyric piece I’m working on. Comments are appreciated.

The Bug

At my feet a little bug crawls across the weathered and faded brick, peeking into each crack, its tiny antennas blurring, searching, feeling. His legs are a blur as he moves from one brick to the next.

What are you searching for, little one? where do you crawl so diligently on this summer morning?

He runs into my shoe and halts, feelers touching the unusual rubber monolith for a moment before stumbling on around, his little shell body always moving in that staggering, longing line–as if there is some lost treasure of his that must surely be nearby.

I know you, I say. As a child I called you Roley Polly and poked you so that you’d roll into your tight little ball then flicked you off the sidewalk. Did that help you get where you are going?

The humid morning air is thick and putrid today, smelling of wet grass and exhaust. It is hard to breath. I too am searching, little one, staggering in crooked lines down sidewalks, checking every crack for what it is I need, for something I may have lost.

My senses hit only brick and steel. Across a pond a janitor rolls a large plastic cart, gathering trash from little green bins. The rumbling noise mixes with the crash of the fountains and echoes off the buildings. In the distance a train shrills and the first sounds of traffic add their distant hum.

Where am I supposed to be today? What is this place, that I sit here staring thoughtfully at tiny crawling insects? Is this what I am looking for? Is this home? Is my heart buried beneath the rippling black water?

I uncurl my shell and try to move my feet but they are encased in rubber. I slip them off and curl my toes, relishing in the movement. I slip off their soft white casings and place them hesitantly on the cool brick. It is smooth and chill. My feet are shriveled and white. The two get acquainted, my toes hesitantly feeling the cracks in the brick, searching.

Where do I place my feet?

The wind ripples across the pond and I feel a brief mist on my legs, tickling my ankles. it is not a new sensation but I cannot grasp the memory nor the meaning.

But the city awakens and I am fearful. I must hide.

A fly lands on my hand as I lean to slip my socks on, as if to say “please stay.” But then I feel the back of my thighs itch and realize it was merely a distraction for the bloodsuckers. On the benches on either site, people have come to sit. I close my eyes and stuff in my headphones to block out everything, hiding again, my cowardly and instinctual defense.

———————

The Squirrel

A moment later I begin to walk, feeling the rhythm of my feet dancing in the lengthening shadows.

Stop. A squirrel stares. Three feet away, poised. Its head tilts quizzically. I feel I have made contact. This is another being. It sees me. I see it. We know each other. What does it want? Its glare seems to ask the same. A moment of tension ensues. She must sense a mutual need–she steps forward hesitantly.

this close I see its fur is sparse and ruffled. its paws have little claws. Its nose wiggles incessantly.

I smile in greeting, offering reassurance. Unsure of the sign, she dodges around the tree, grasping its wizened texture, ready to climb to safety. But it peaks around the other side, curious. I am still standing, watching.

She comes down a little closer, perhaps thinking that my hands in my pockets will reveal a morsel of food. At the foot of the tree she steps forward and pauses expectantly, her eyes penetrating me, her front paw lifted, quivering an inch above the ground.

What would you like? Would you like to be friends? We can climb trees through the day and dance across these rooftops, looking for bits of food to hid in our little knot in the tree, passing the days in the carefree motion of nature and seasons.

I take a step forward and she runs off up the tree. Some other time then little one?

—————————-

The Statue

Giant man of stone, where are you galloping so diligently on that horse? Your tag says you’ve been here since 1965. That is a long time to be carrying that torch. You grasp it so hard in your hand, afraid that you might lose it–or perhaps that it might go out.  Blessed fire warms us all before the wind conjured by your haste snuffs it out. You cloak waves behind you and it looks like you might lose it. You are naked but for this simple cloth; did you forget to dress before you ran to your silent, never moving duty?   When will you reach your destination?  When will you be done? Encased in bronze, you’ll carry this torch forever, never to pass it on.

Your face, my giant torch-bearing friend, is what gives it away. You’re looking behind you. I see you regret your lot. Your face is creased with worry as you peer over your should, as if to wonder if anyone will follow, if your light will be any good at all.  I see you and understand. I too have this torch I have conjured up to light my way. I insist, however, that I will not be frozen in regret as you are, never moving, always standing still.

Nametag:
The Torch Bearer
Presented to the
University of South Carolina
By the sculptress
Anna Hyatt Huntington
1965

Buoyed by the traffic I flow along the streets of Columbia, South Carolina, towards the heart of this historic city.  In a city where a fourth of its population is in college, this flow takes me right past Main Street. It pulls me past the historic state house with its ever controversial Confederate Flag and onward down the dusty streets, past the sprawling University that fills the center of the city like an every expanding lung, offering fresh air to an otherwise aged city. It takes a swift turn down Hunter Street and there I see the heart of the city, where the blood flows steadily and inexorably to the place called Five Points. Here five major roads converge along with an enormous amount of bars, college students, and alcohol.

I am a stranger here.  It is a world that I have never known.  The noisy bars, the bitter mixed smells of liquor and tobacco, the endless crowds of smiling faces—I have always stayed away. Despite four years in college I have never tasted alcohol, never attempted to see or to understand this important and treasured part of so many people’s lives. Until now.