Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Another Saturday Night


How can you play it safe in a dangerous world? We dip our toes in deaths pool now and then just to get our feet wet, all the while skirting the edges with a wary eye, watchful of the deeper waters. It's a matter of time we know...when we wade deep into that waiting abyss. Will they find us looking up? Or looking down?

It's hard to concentrate on a Saturday night with the moon whizzing by at light speed, kept only in check by the drink in my hand. Well...it was in my hand a moment ago, when I was leaning into the sanctuary of the bar. I vaguely recall the bartender's familiar face passing something in my direction. I hope the drink was mine to take.

It smells like rum. It might be.

Bars are familiar places for sleepwalkers like myself. We take our dreams with us everywhere we go. And in the worlds cruel reflection, those dreams turned sideways make ready nightmares...the kind you bury in good drinking company.

Like everything else in this world, social circles are gathered together like Texas tornados. Wherever you find yourself blown about, you will find others like you...all dusting together and making order through conjoined chaos. Can we really be judged by the friends we keep? I think its more that we just all go down together on the sinking ship because we made the same travel arrangements on the Titanic.

I am what happens when Cowboy pathos drives a nail into the Pope's toe. Perhaps he was just checking out the waters like the rest of us and I got suspicious of his intentions. I carry that suspicion with me. I dare not drink enough of my rum to chance an introspective glance inside. It's not so much ever what I would find, but what I could face. It's better to put the drink to my lips, cast a knowing look at the full moon between bars, and chase the sunrise.

Whether you worship Jung or Jesus, its pretty clear that your soul spills out around you. Who are these people swept up in your midnight vortex? Are these real people at all...friends? Or are they phantom forms of your subconscious played out about you to force you to pay attention to what's inside after all, and to make you face yourself sharp at the hour of 3AM?

I wonder.

I see the pretty blonde girl with me that has managed to successfully smuggle a fern inside her shirt. It will come in handy she insists. Who am I to disagree with her? She'll be dancing with me soon and I'll have to find a place to secure her new greenery. The next bar will be getting a makeover. Patrons will find it slightly more appealing and always wonder why.

My friend the blonde is speaking a language that few can understand. Though I am native to her same southern state, I am often at a loss in the face of her dialect. It's a kind of drawl doing a two step with a slow going surprise. Mixed with alcohol, one can render raw emotions from the spoken words. I feel what she is saying.

I've known this happy go lucky girl before. Other girls have played her part on my stage. She stands by me with a gleam in her eye. Pure mischief...but well maintained its magical. Angels take many forms. And of all of those Jungian eruptions it is this dancing harlequin by my side that is that purest expression of the controlled tempest of my being. She is always also my favorite.

There is a very large fellow just ahead of her. He's frequently angry about something...some quiet wrong put upon him by the fairer sex or those just not as strong as himself. In their passive way they have breached his fortifications. He has sounded the alarm and he walks with the gait of a man making war.

I keep an eye on this fellow. Yet, I should worry more about the girl. Any jester is notorious for turning the joke on you. It's always better to fight the war than to lose it before it starts.

The heroes journey takes many forms. Hercules vanquished Cerberus and I pass through the underworld having fallen from golden heights of whispered loves and hard won victories. You can find yourself spent on these lonesome shores. It's good to have friends about.

I'm glad to find those friends at 3AM. The Chaotic Angel, The Brooding Warrior. What does this really say of me? And what exactly is creeping up on me in the dead of night, threatening to drag me down into that grim pool?

It's better that I dont find out tonight. There are no mercies in the darkness. That means that when the sun rises I'll have to watch it set once more before the dreams unfold and all the terrors show their faces again.

Take another drink and gather strength for that battle. It will come, wont it? It's still early. There's another door just ahead of me. Pick an odd skirmish or two over the next bar. D Day will come.

Oh my...the Angels lost her shoes and the Warrior is threatening the vendor selling hot dogs on the sidewalk.

Another Saturday Night.

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