objects appear closer
By Eric Matthew Olander
Paintballs pounding the house with rainbow hail, for all he cares, with his viewpoint constrained in flashbacks and the shed, watching the roof destroyed for the tenth time in five times as many years, the Alumni of MKUltra who did not ride a psychedelic bus across white bread America promoting something of a greater notion; electrifying cross country travel ethics, or brought his typewriter along, into the Study, so drug induced inspiration could fuel the lyrics of songs destiny will smile upon, to create a lifelong jam band movement as an ongoing concern, but is just an irregular regular guy, nobody creative.
Practiced practicality escaping into the woods to build a better house and home. For self preservation. Off grid before the “Grid” was a thing. Still the oddity of it was it was a structure a random fugitive of the Weather Underground had helped him put its first-ever roof upon. Decades of acid trips ago. Leading mostly nowhere. Between the days of attempted self-creation and the increasingly hostile hail storms. The lonely edifice, now being pummeled by streaks of Heaven was framed out by a militant orphan of generational pacification, in exchange for anonymity.
Jimmy’s grandparents, (who had kept Jews beneath their floorboards, in the old country) would have loved the gesture; the resistance, although it was isolation which ennobled the consummate city dweller, the weary prankster, to reach out to the human hitchhiking into the unknown, and bestow upon him the shelter he, himself, never found. In neither sane nor insane worlds competing for market share of endless war and promised peace.
A first roof and the first conversations with someone who could understand how he felt about not just the program but that the whole damn-gone psychedelic era being the totality of the plan. Declaw a generation by making the up and rising Yippies (the Youth International Party) momentum vector into a sub-cult calling themselves Hip and therefore its denizens Hippies. Later, in their turn, herding the addicts of instant gratification (the seemingly uninhibited sex, drugs and rock and roll pseudo-homophone sub-culture) into the manor of cocaine infused Yuppiedom. The sound investment returned to the feudal fold.
Power plays a longer game than just thought control, would be Jim’s dissertation. Or the seeking of enlightenment. His debriefing. This he could confide in his fugitive guest. Consumerism purchasing more of the soul than we suspected, with the suppose-it counter current itself becoming little more inspired than consumer goods. A visually presented gilded cage, he’d give days of discord and discourse towards, being contrary to the chaos given the mind’s eye, as the post-literate world began to champion and deploy fools and niche intellectuals. Building castles for the incompetent and down right stupidest humans alive — should tell you something. Logos plastered on clothing and everything else, in the cities and towns. ‘Til the corporate names became identity itself. Muttering to himself, since the day he left civilization in search of the civilized. A bookish nobody, off the grind … talking up the birds. Flies on the wall. The particulars and peculiarities of the flashbacks given his youth. The good and the bad days. As well as the characters filling out the fictive memories and the Non. Because the ears to hear were already always accusing him of tripp’n’.
As he usually was … Inebriated.
Ultimately searching the stacks, rather than offend those interested in hearing only their own rebuttal.
So with silence a better friend, Jimmy moved the future diaspora into this one room contraption now up on blocks, in the tall weeds, and serving as the Volks tool shed, and Eckhart’s Grunt, where a light penitence and bottomless guilt-fed existence, employed and entertained the destitute and fleeting sojourner alike, as he, here, could curse God and mankind aloud — as well as give praise where praise was overdue; depending on how the colors of the abuse of youth inform the very next day on the calendar, as he slowly built hearth and home within many mansion rooms. His own piece of Alexandria. A truer abiding. Even around the mania that was sometimes a Guest who stayed too long. A house he built most times alone — as well as with little help from friends, in the end.
Recovery from even the third act of the “War to end all wars” remains a one day at a time thing; as the years would come and go. The mannequins selling us a fake democracy, exchanging the fashion every four to eight years; as he repaired the wear and tear of surviving the living. With both communism and colonial capitalism finally collapsing unto the untainted necessity of cooperation — all growth required to circle back to beginnings no matter the method of avoidance. Death and birth the same point in space and time; anyone who has died can tell you. God’s presence in the absence …
Watching the hail’s 15 minutes of fame dissipate across the lawn and gardens, he’ll consider how he never knew what happened to that Guardian Angel. The foot soldier who was his psychiatrist for one blissful week. The Che protege who helped raise his ridge pole. On a humble shelter built solely to replace the microbus going nowhere. Like it was Providence’s function. The roof. An abode for a government issued lifestyle it turns out. As the perennial, permanent wars burn out. Momentum gutted by the education of the addicts of greed hitting the same sort of bitch slap hand of Providence. Like ducks on the road to Emmaus; so few wrestling Jacob’s ladder. The think and grow rich garden patch fallowed by its own over indulgence.
The last communication a postcard of the Queen Mary, tied up to the dock. In NYC.
Looking at the old, leather tool belt hooked over the mirror: saying objects appear closer …, as the sounding of golf ball size destruction pebbles down and fades back to the dull grays of sunlight and drizzle reconstituting into gossip, trails (old and new) consider this …
He heard she didn’t make the crossing.