Steady habit draws me back to this place, my chair, my breathing air. This is my room, a good place to go and get out of the house. I am here with a tea and a bagel, my electronic devices, my thoughts and a background of busyness. The radio is still playing, same as any day. All of this feels like a hologram, sometimes. Someone turns a key and it goes on. It starts with a low frequency rumble, a hiss or two and the lights flicker. Then, brightness, false cheer and a signature greyed-green all spray out toward the blank world. This little trailer-like impression of a place is generated at the head office and sent by satellite relay to all parts of the world, maybe also into the deep Amazon jungle? Oh, lord… Starbucks on the shores, just out of reach of piranha with tiny people in a row, smiling for the cameras and looking confused? Is this a phony island in the midst of world-wide chaos? That’s cool. It’s ok, it is normal, regular and I am ok, my folks/friends are ok. It’s a good life until the batteries run out. It’s a good life that is slow tipping toward an end. It’s a good life, slow winding down with certain pre-echoes of the days to come. In politics there is a major pre- and post-echo of change. The once mighty and moral U.S. is disappearing into a mire, no longer a melting pot of freedom for all. Of course, it never was that. The lie is uncovered as the place collapses. It is a rusty old facade.
Myself? I can’t get up and down without a bit of stagger and sigh. Haha. I’ve still some miles to go before the sleep but not so many promises left to honour. Not so many things to leave behind, either, few marks. There are a couple of pissed off folks back there whom are eagerly awaiting my lights out. Perhaps they have that day’s events pre-planned? A bit of celebration? Haha. I did almost have a child, long ago but circumstance stepped in and that ended almost as soon as it began. There won’t be a fortune left behind, I own mostly a pile of vinyl recordings and too much furniture for anyone to sort through. Years of dissipation and foolish real estate moves have used up the ’60 hours per week for 40 years’ money. I am living on Social Security and a smile. All 32 teeth, though.
Mine will probably not be an immediate end nor an anytime soon one. No. Lots of time left to finish some work around the house, finish a book or two, learn to play piano better. Lots of time. Lots of time to live through and beyond the days of Donald Trump and pandemic and Starbucks. Those days will end before I do, most likely. I will disappear and probably quietly one day without a lot of dust or fuss. Most of us go out that way. Unlike my quietness and yours, there is an inglorious end waiting for Trump, no matter how loud the shouts, “I’m the greatest!” Folks will piss on his grave for a while. In the meantime,
he is a sorry mess and so demanding of attention that we have little hope he will go softly. When Muhammed Ali shouted out his greatness to the listening world, it was true but he went softly, gently into the good night to a chorus all ’round of “He Was The Greatest!” Maybe making such a statement yourself is self-serving hyperbole but Mr. Ali was a man of integrity. He had morals, empathy, honesty. Those things are pretty great. I don’t think Mr. Trump can spell any of the words, let alone understand connotations or denotations. I am almost feeling sorry for him. He is a sad man, on his inevitable way out.
I don’t feel sorry for myself and inevitability today. I am not worried about that for a moment. I am just typing. I am just finishing my tea. I am making modest plans for the future. I suppose I should do so but I have no regrets, not really. S’okay. Cheers, mates!
Robert On The Air 