Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Knowing No One

Knowing No One
Wake up troubled. Long dreams filled the night with lots of problems including being trapped on a railroad trestle over water and being scared of heights. Listen to soft news and shaking it off preparing for the day. The usual windows are opened to the sunshine and the day is welcomed as the water heats for the shake of creamer and sugar and instant coffee mixture. Wondering if the dreams were due to being too hot settle down before the big screen and fire up the news of the world and whatever people want to share with others. A sip of tap water to loosen up the leftovers of last night and type in the password wondering if the shop who updated this machine remembered it. A sip of hot liquid as the mind starts to wake in the light of the morning reading that a daughter of a high school friend is engaged. What is the reaction? A smile and a quick email are sent and then the continued search of the news locations as the morning breakfast treat disappears. After an hour it is time to wander onto the next journey. The usual change from flannel to jeans with an additional layer due to an evening of below freezing temps. Open the front door and take a breathe of the morning air. Review the layout of the land as done every day and pause to reflect on the past evening and present yourself on the dawn. Double lock and take a scan of the inside before opening the back door to the forest. So far the only words to leave the lips are, “Good Morning Day!” when the shades are adjusted to let in the light. Step down after securing the back door and pause to introduce you to the yard. They pause and adjust to the voice of “Hello” (which seems to be the phrase to whatever new awaits) and slow their panic due to the familiar tone. The awkward yet trained steps over the broken trail of wooden beams to the platform next to the pond. Looking around and taking a breath, the day has begun. Leaves and pine tags carpet the floor of the woods and all is quiet, except for the distant leaf blower. Saddle up a pony and prepare to ride only to look at the water and wonder if this view will be seen again. Across the gravel and into the traffic lanes adjust position and breathing for the adventures that lay ahead. The usual pattern is to deviate onto a different path, but today will be different. Not quiet as steady as normal, the venture follows the daily route knowing it will change to return around the long hills and into the city. Then the thoughts come which are the reason for the ride. Waiting for a light and the traffic to decide which way they intend to turn notice the young couple walking by and think, “Nice rack” as she smiles knowing full well of her endowments and the young lad parading her with pride across the street from a church where the blind are leading the blind. Over the rough roads layered by years only to avoid some holes showing the true original dirt establishing the path. The morning pace is starting to pick up since this run is a little later than normal. Again the thoughts of the strange dreams of faces known but events confused intermingle with songs of the season and themes repeated last night on the guitar. A group wanders down the street, perhaps students, passing by a man photographing a house front, possibly a realtor but there is no sign and the jeans are examined. A quick turn to return home and stranger thoughts pause at the light. The third story windows where she said she had lived are reviewed as the bottle refreshes. A knowing yet frustrated smile continues the wonderment and so the pedals move forward. “We will stay over on this side to stay in the sunshine” a father tells his daughter on this Sunday ride. Another father daughter will be seen later while the slow pace is approached and space given. So the thoughts continue. Names and faces and actions and reactions and conclusions continue to form thought visions into the unknown. Passing by the museum with a reflection into the window the thoughts of past times continue. The young girls in this neighborhood who were searching for the same future yet their God did not allow it and the ones who did soon devalued the attention. The tennis players are not on the court on the return possibility due to the cool weather or the lack of interest in the game. A turn toward home with a wonderment of seasonal plastic images lying dead on lawns under trees filled with large colored balls. Yet none of these houses have names or occupants who are known. Thinking of what would happen moving into a new neighborhood or more so a new city. Strange surroundings and surrounded by strangers. What would happen? How would one find people to talk to or even friends? Most moves of this nature are due to occupational changes so the workplace is the social ground for making associates into familiar faces and possible friends. It gives a playing field to ask the questions and make common references to events and minded agreements. Many times the workplace is where romantic relations start. So if that central grouping ground is missing, what happens? Clubs and nightspots, if ventured, can connect unknown persons to one-another even though there is a fee. And if these are not explored does that make a hermit? A hermit who is living life apart from the rest of society? Making a lifestyle that eliminates the luxury of companionship sharing experiences only to review them years later that only the two will understand. Making a lifestyle that only one understands or is content in it’s meaning. Making a lifestyle that is perhaps misunderstood by the outside but answers the questions that maybe we don’t have to be friends with our neighbors. Perhaps leaving their beliefs and feelings and life baggage alone makes the trip lighter. There is enough to carry by you. On the way back to the four-walled box ahead are two riders on horses walking calmly through the neighborhood. No explaining but it makes sense.

1 comment:

Art said...

I like this narrative a LOT. You made it harder to read, though, by going 'stream of consciousness' and without breaks or paragraphs... Art