Red Hand Green Light

SYSTEM IS DOWN. The guy at the hardware store was so sorry to be out of tools, so it’s time to summon up the muses and present writing, in the manner of a television set left on in a room no-one occupies, blaring into the empty night.  Set up & ready, to render forth the barrage of ideas and entertainments found here, in humility and kind spirit to you, dear reader, for whom it has been solely crafted and is now presented.

And what a pleasure it is, to capture & convey granules of perception, nestled in all the spirit and intrigue that are just waiting to be broken off –  like a splinter-cell, made up almost entirely of wishes. A language where common sense is held in check by aspirations, both numerous and vague, between alliances and antipathies, loyalties and lone wolves, all stringing up a web of affiliation and shared resolve so we may all understand and celebrate, together, that which is noble and enduring in civilization.

RED HAND/GREEN LIGHT is the signal given encouraging autos to proceed, while pedestrians are held in check at the curb.    It puts this pedestrian into a moment of choice when wishing to cross the street, and many simply amble through with little regard to what they see.  I take the moment to pause, then let go & thank mighty God for all of life’s blessings, moving on when the signal changes.  This can be a difficult thing to do, particularly when traffic is non-existent, often becoming an affirmation of my belief:  ‘All Patience Belongs to God.’

Having lost reliance upon human things so very long ago, my dreams, destiny and delusions have all been melded into potato-sized nodules – much like those now sought upon the ocean’s floor – farrowed about & ready to be brought to the surface, cut & polished into tales that will bring more good than harm.  Like the deep-sea miners, I navigate an emptiness of purpose and meaning unfathomable to most; curiously, the impact point – of a trajectory so misguided by malignant values and frustrated over-zealotry – becomes our point of departure, gazing into the wild kaleidoscope that is life in the moment in a world that forever spins eastwardly at 800 miles per hour.

THE MISCREANT SINGS in the alley right now, gruffly alternating between trumpet solo sounds, Jamaican street patois and N word packed attempts at freestyle rhyming.  Truly a one man serenade, a real entertainer, he gleefully throws all the cardboard, plastic bags and contents of the dumpster he is standing in onto the surrounding parking lot.

“Give me money,” he exclaims, in song, “and everything will go smooth.”  He delivers his message in syncopated cadence, rather loudly, and with great feeling.

Once he pulls himself out of the dumpster, the man can barely walk – hobbling about drunkenly, then collapsing right into the pavement where he lies a moment in silence. He then resumes his seranade, tearing into the plastic garbage bags, inspecting their contents then casting them about with zest & abandon.

“I’m leaving a trail,” he sings, happily, to no-one in the alley – “between the last spot and this spot and the next spot.”  Grunting in rhythm as he somehow makes his way toward the boulevard, shit-talking in song, the wind blows his scatterings even further from their original location.  The cardboard boxes and old rug have been arranged to await his return.

Witnessing the kaleidoscope of colors and shapes of people riding on the ‘E’ train: Computer users, chattering schoolkids (with futures all so bright), jean jackets, down vests and lots of different shoes.  A grizzled guy in a canvas Carhart hoodie sits next to an Indonesian student, watching YouTube silently with Beats by Dre wireless headphones.  There’s a jittery guy, in a face mask and hoodie, standing over a tattered duffle bag by the door.  “It was all a MIRAGE” he belts out, before exiting the train.

Moments of beauty, too, flickering in and out of the grim city; A lady riding the train is bundled up, wearing her purple scarf as a head cover.  She holds several bunches of flowers, wrapped for the cold in clear cellophane.  She is wearing a Covid mask; the flowers perfectly match her scarf as she gazes out the train window.

On boards a chattering man, in blue coveralls, walking and talking about ‘what’s up,’ with & about not taking what’s yours, adding more gems about not snitching.  He’s wearing a Denver Nuggets T-shirt, a 40 Malt Liquor cap on his head, when he calls me out as ‘a grown-assed man.’  Once we’re on the train, decorum gives way to shit-talking, which elevates to an unrepentant and furious cacophony of wisdom to anyone who speaks in tongues..

Our friend begins mumbling, then mumbling at something a million miles an hour.  He sings! And he’s wildly chattering between stops.  And he’s drinking STRAIGHT honey out of one of those cute plastic bears.  His various tyrades are peppered with microseconds of silence, then: SHUT UP, BITCH!  He returns to mumbling, chattering and waving his arms, while wildly singing about Godzilla .  Apparently it was his ‘Rusty Dusty Bitch-Head Bitch’ that he was addressing.

It was the moment when these words came to me, through Krishna: “All men are equal, in joy and suffering.”

Nothing but one million monkeys, all pounding away at the typewriters of my mind; synapse, symbolism and semantics all squealing out like pigs at the state fair.  What emerges are ideas & words, swimming just beneath this stream of consciousness into which  I’ve placed my vessel. I grab a paddle, don my life vest and focus only upon breathing.

What audacity is wrought, when I live life by my rules, coming up short when it comes to accepting responsibility of any kind, yet secure in the knowledge that I shall die enjoying life.

Only divine providence conveys these feeble attempts to fit into a world speeding by, beyond all control, purpose, meaning or utility of any kind.

And only joy, in the unfettered & bristling resignation to the notion of acceptance, along with faith in One God alone, can carry me through this page and on with life.  And only kindness, tolerance and humility are going to get me anywhere.

The blessings we take for granted are the light which infuses us all.  And it is miraculous how diverse and deep our visions scatter; humanity’s trajectory is one with nature’s steadfast redemption.

And yet we are measured by our usefulness to others and to God.

What a silver truck, swerving aggressively through a red light and speeding through an intersection can possibly have in common – with my breath, body and hope – can only be known by the Creator.  My job is just to tell it like it is.

ON A TUESDAY EVENING, as a siren wails up the boulevard, weed smoke wafts about the bus stop.

A stutter dancing woman, wearing a black bowler hat, black boots and a Mexican pancho – an old ratty guitar strapped upon her back – sings “I never promised you a rose garden,” then offers me some of her pork rinds.  “They’re Habanerro Mango” she says, “my favorite kind.”

She stands aside a shopping cart, haphazardly loaded up with her possessions & perched upon the curb.

Next to her stands a real bad hombre: black skullcap, black face mask and glaring eyes.

The joy I experience, within this deconstructed, post-modern world that we all inhabit, is beyond compare.

And all I have to do is convey it to you, dear reader. So nice to have you along for the ride!

Pachelbel’s CANON IN D plays majestically inside, while a deranged scoundrel, wearing black boots, black T-shirt & shorts which cover grey leggings, scowers through the alleyway.  He carrys a grey blanket, which bobs & sways about his stammering gait; he mumbles and grumbles, then jumps up on the dumpster to have a look at what’s inside.  His legs jerk as he teeters upon its edge, clawing at the refuse at its bottom while twisting and turning; his grey ball cap falls into the dumpster, the man barks briefly then makes the grab, and in one motion, places it backwards upon his head. He is alone, filthy and dehydrated, as he ambles off into this glorious autumn day. 

A young, dirty and somewhat menacing miscreant dawdles up the alley – he shuffles in white socks with Adidas pool slippers upon them.  Meandering, from the dumpster & across the gritty asphalt, he ambles up to the Convenience Store which is going out of business today.  He has a hand upon the straw he is holding in his teeth.  I am typing against Large Language Models, so everything has to be in place and carrying just the right emotion or connotation.  More human than I am finding within myself, but in earnest and oh so imperfectly do I seek to tell the tale.

An angry street woman,wearing a black & tattered wizard's cap, and carrying a filthy blanket, spits in the large plate glass of the window of a diner in downtown Denver.