A Pitch Black Night II + THE DISQUIET PLASTIC MIND

A PITCH BLACK NIGHT

It is a pitch-black night. The stars are shining bright but their glimmer can not be seen. The clouds are hanging like indigo drapes. Heavy soviet shabby indigo curtains. The moon is nowhere to be seen. The stale wind is blowing over the marsh. There is no sound to be heard. No one can tell if it is winter or summer. So strange are these times. 

A fly starts its ascension towards the unseen moon. As soon as it appears on the horizon a green nasty toad appears and swallows it in a quick gulp. That is the end of the poor fly. 

A dragonfly also appears on the horizon and manages to escape the hungry toad. The toad blinks with its huge eyes towards the dim glimmer of what might have been a dragonfly's invisible wings. The toad does not hear anything, nor it sees anything, very well. The toad does not care. We know because of its soulless expression. Its huge but stupid brain knows nothing of the stars in the sky, other than what flew right before its nose. Some people are like that.

  

People on the street are rushing by. They don't see the moon or the stars, they simply run on like a river. They bury their noses in gutters. They are worried, they are disquiet, they are disturbed in their sleep, and they cannot sleep, they wake up at 3 a.m. in the morning thinking the same thoughts they have already digested the previous morning. Sleepwalkers all of them. The streetcar is running toward us but we don't want to catch it, so we let it pass. While standing there watching it disappear we cannot help but fall in love, and falling in love becomes an amusement, a game. We are disillusioned and have fallen prey to self-deception. We think we can love. We end up knowing nothing of one another. We end up complete strangers.

Strange days these are. As I light a cigarette standing at the corner watching the sunset and the last photons kicking against the curb, I am wondering when this all is going to end. This mess I am in. Owing money and favors. I detest owning anything, even the air that I breathe. Nothing comes cheap. Never had. Now it's visible more than ever. I am waiting for H. to come and collect the dough. I get nervous when he's not on time. Bastard. Almost always late. I think he came on time only once. Everything's about him. His clothes, his money problems, his car, his work, his women. I can't stand that shit any longer. I'm packing my things and going to split. Just have to do it wisely without him ever realizing it is him I am running away from. It's like that Vaya Con Dios song about Louis who don`t care a thing about anyone. That`s H. precisely. With surgical precision. I am sick and tired of investing myself in narcissistic bastards, covert, or overt. Business or pleasure. I swear I'm going to explode if he doesn't come on time. Like hell. I always think that and then resign. What a coward I am.

Don`t you just hate it when people treat you like you are a ghost? I heard some people ghost hunt. What a crap. We are already ghosts. There`s no harm in offering a drink. We like wine, no harm in that. And you think highly of yourself, don't you? You make everyone believe you are so humble, doing community work, helping the poor, and yet you just seek attention. You are scared inside, feeling worried, anxious for what? You are worried people are onto you. That's why. Scared like a little mouse so you pretend you are a lion. You are a liar. We are all a bunch of liars.

THE DISQUIET PLASTIC MIND

How could you insult me like that? Silence, talking, silence. Silence can be like an insult.

He is so wrapped up in himself and the time is running. I have no time for such nonsense. You are in love with yourself. You say that`s your nature. And I say my nature is not that different than yours. The only difference is I did not put my conscience to sleep. What would become of us if we acted as our nature dictates. There would be only ants left on this earth. Maybe not even them.

Now you are nervous all of a sudden as if you have seen a ghost. Can you hide behind a ghost? I think ghosts are more frightened of us than we of them. That`s why we can no longer see them in this house we stopped calling home a long time ago. That`s why they stopped roaming the streets and have fled to marshes and lonely places. That is why we feel alone. It`s because we no longer can see ghosts.

People are treacherous. 

Men are treacherous. 

Women are treacherous. 

Children are treacherous. 

You should never forget that.

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Now she`s preparing to go out. the air in the room is humid, stale, putrid, but she doesn`t mind. The bird in the cage doesn`t know how to fly, that`s why she can inhale the staleness as her own self. There is no difference. She`s cleaning her chair, her desk, her hands, throwing an empty bottle where water was but is no more because she`s drunk it. She squishes the empty plastic bottle into a ball and throws it into the garbage can. She`s preparing to go out. When will she leave already? She`s making noise, so much noise even the astronauts at the NASA space station can hear it. Some people somewhere in the orbit. But do they care? Does she care there`s a vast universe above her head? Of course, she doesn`t. She`s preparing to go out to get the new bank card. How important to her. How trivial to the astronauts and to the cold, soundproof universe. She would so much want her life to be more exciting. She`s refreshing her make-up, putting hand lotion on, rubbing her greasy fingers, and hands one against the other. That`s about the only adventure she`s going to have for the day. That and maybe a ride on the bus home. The anticipation of the adventure of running into a traffic jam. How Exciting and novel. But to her, everything passes. To her, everything dissolves. One day will fade into another day, and that into another, until her very death.