Like Wall Street

Life is transitory. We’re in a state of decay, or so they say. We don’t die. We undergo a complete metamorphosis into dust and bone. We feed the insects and soil and become flora and fauna and life all over again. Or so they say, If I had the answers I’d be more like them.

            

I went out last night to the Dresden Room. My friend John is the manger. He and I like to talk about politics. He claims he has no political affiliation, but I don’t believe him. I haven’t pressed him on the subject. Politics seems to meld into one purposeless argument of who's right and who's wrong. The things that matter are lost in the details. John and I talk friendly and try to listen more than convince. I lean to the left of the political spectrum on account of my proletariat upbringing. I side with the workingman, but I want to be more like an aristocrat and not work at all. I don’t mind working, as long as I’m working at something I like. I don’t need much. I was thinking of ways to live without money yesterday. I was immediately hung up when I thought about my student loan and transportation, not to mention food. I could ride a bike, and plant a garden and then pull a Wall Street and bailout on my loan all together, but who wants to be like them, like Wall Street. 

The Snapping Sharks

I had a dream that there was a tidal wave sucking the ocean water away from the shore. I did what came naturally, I grabbed a patio set umbrella and caught the wind and floated over it. There were two giant sharks nipping at my feet as floated by. They looked like the shark on the old Jaws poster, but massive. I was undaunted. Cocky, I mocked them as they snapped at my feet. It was a weird dream that’s for sure.

            I woke up and did my usual coffee session with myself and drove to Martin’s to work on The Mundane Blues. We’re in the mixing phase now. I hope to post it on Bandcamp soon.  The Lakers were victorious. Things are good, until next time. 

Easter

On Easter Sunday I found myself driving my ninety-year old aunt and my mother and sister eastward to the suburbs for our family Easter celebration. We have a family tradition for Easter that goes back ever since I can remember.

We were on the freeway and traveling without a hitch. I was driving at a pretty good clip. I just wanted to get there. I was in a minor state of torture. We were humming along when a high pitch squealing sound emanated from left front wheel well.

“What’s that? I asked

“What’s what?”

“That sound.”

“I don’t hear anything,” my aunt said.

I heard it and I was the captain.

“It’s just a plastic bag stuck to the bumper,” my mother said.

But it wasn’t a plastic bag. We had a situation on our hands.

“It’s that truck! It's that truck over there," my sister said.

For a moment I thought it was the truck, but it wasn’t the truck.

Everybody offered their expert opinion as to what the sound was. Then, my aunt dropped out of the conversation completely. She decided it a good time to write Easter cards to her great great grand daughter’s. She dipped her head down and wrote amidst the chaos.

I pulled the car over to inspect it. There was fluid spilling out from under the carriage. I pulled the car forward so I could decipher what kind of fluid it was. I stuck my finger in it. It was water.

“It’s water,” I said.

My sister sounded the call. “It’s water!”

“It’s probably the air conditioner, “I said.

I turned the air conditioner off. The sound went away. I stuck to the side streets just to play it safe. We drove a couple of miles, all was good, and then the sound came back.