If work is a rubber ball.
I wonder am I the juggler or am I the dog?
I rest my head against the wall.
Close my eyes.
It all starts to spin.
My mind, topples, and begins to roll. I nod and turn. Subtle suggestions for my mind to follow. I begin clumsily directing through a reconstructed fabric of time. I’m searching for something. But the folds of emotions slow my stroll. Press on. Clear a path for concentration. Focus. Awareness.
The Yesterdays are a sea of eternity. The Tomorrows too. In them lies an answer. Of that, I am certain. But the ripples of the fabric swell. Any vision of distance, obscured.
So I spin. And in the darkness, I do my best to navigate by the stars.
Weary. Bleary. I doze off.
The damp cold against my back makes me shudder. The solid ground tells me that I have navigated to the Now. I sit up to see that before me there lies a single path.
I look outward, to the beauty of this place. Something to grasp on to. And inward, to see how far that will carry me. I fall forward, spinning violently toward my eventual reality.
Like a set of pins.
I open my eyes. Look up. The back of my head rests against the lane of a bowling alley. The back wall of Big Shed Little Cabin. Two segments of lanes, stacked on top of each other horizontally. Somehow, that was the solution that made the most sense.
Above, tarp. An ugly, salvaged umbrella. Something that would struggle to capture a fart, let alone heat on a cold night. I see an empty space between joists where some semblance of ceiling begs to be.
I see more work.
I see the climb out of here.
All we can do is climb.
When we run out of footholds, we create our own.
With that, I press my lips against the rim of the glass. And with an alcohol laced milk mustache, I call upon my spirit animal.
A man who has faced near unsurmountable opposition in the form of nihilists and a rich, disabled Caucasian.
A man who knows how to put spin on a ball. 1
Shall we partake on a brief journey of ponderation?
The Dude abides.
An idling Ford Torino beckons. Some Creedence, a joint, and a drive.
Are you fuckin kiddin me? →