When it comes time in our lives to make a break with the past, we don’t need to know what is going to happen next. We do however need to be damn clear on what is not going to happen again.
Tag: future
Searchlights
Night fell hours ago. As dusk settled over the barren desert landscape, I switched on the headlights. The hum of the engine seems to drum in rhythm with the broken white lines that define the two sides of this strip of desolate highway. Darkness envelopes the world leaving only that which is directly before me to consider. The interior lighting of the console wraps me in a soft amber glow. The high beams offer about one hundred yards of insight into my future; my immediate future to be specific. I drive on in what I believe to be relative safety; confident in the precept that, though I cannot see my destination I will, in ever forward moving hundred yard increments, ultimately reach it.
In truth, though night fell years ago, decades ago, a lifetime ago, metaphorically speaking. The droning of the engine is comforting here in the desert, a white noise lullaby. One of my favorite memories from childhood, prior to the wise institution of seatbelt laws, was be to curled up on the bench back seat of my parents’ station wagon on the way home from some night time gathering. There in the darkness, I’d find comfort in the purr of the Dodge Polara engine and the gentle pitch and sway the given roadway afforded. The gatherings themselves were sometimes fun, sometimes awkward, these were my parents’ friends, who often happened to have children around my age. Regardless of how the evening went, whether I enjoyed it or simply endured it; I always looked forward to the comfort of the slow strobe of street lights reflecting off the vinyl upholstery. I would bury my face in the seam between the seat and backrest, welcoming the warm decent into dream state.
The white lines whip past me, ticking my journey off in nanoseconds. I see little more than these in my given hundred yards of illumination. An occasional signage alerts me to a coming lonely intersection, or town if one could call a desert gas station and closed motel a town, but that is about all I know of my next few minutes. So it has been with the daylight of my life as well. Many of us take life day by day, week by week or month by month. I count myself among that number. I drive through life using the throw of metaphorical headlights to see just far enough down the road to keep my foot on the accelerator. This approach has gotten me here, now, halfway across the southern border Joshua Tree National Park eastbound on U.S. Interstate 10 in the dead of night; speeding I might add, 95 in a 70mph zone.
What if instead of headlights I had searchlights? Of course, mounting searchlights to the roof of my car and plowing through the night might be perceived as incredibly inconsiderate by oncoming drivers, and likely more illegal than my 95 in a 70. But I think as I fly by another desolate rest stop, what would my life be like if I used searchlights to illuminate the future? How would my understanding of this present moment change? Hundreds of miles of possibilities, opportunities and choices would suddenly be illuminated in the space that was once a desert of impenetrable darkness. Some have done so, or we wouldn’t have electric lights at all.
Share this:
If I Had It To Do All Over Again
A salesman came to the door yesterday. I was drinking black coffee in the living room when I heard the knock. We don’t get many uninvited callers on our long dead-end street, which works out well for me. I slowly set down my old white porcelain mug and rose from my writing perch on the dark brown leather sofa. Click went the lock. We have no peephole so the next bit would have to be a surprise. There he stood, in a smart black suit, attaché case in his left hand, right hand cupped to his mouth. Think he was checking the state of his breath.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good afternoon,” he replied, quickly lowering his hand.
“My name is Xavier Mulligan, may I please have a moment of your time to present a most irresistible opportunity?”
“How irresistible?” I asked, wreaking of doubt.
“Exceedingly irresistible sir, I assure you. Give me but two minutes to introduce the offer and if by that time you are not interested I will vacate directly,” he said with unwavering confidence.
“Ah, okay.” I reluctantly mumbled.
“May I come in?”
“I suppose,” I said. My hesitation painting my face into a near grimace. Though truth be told, I was a tad intrigued.
“Thank you kindly,” he said accepting the opening door with a quick step forward and then there we were in my living room. My cooling coffee cup reminding me of traditional hosting duties.
“And how would you like to be called?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Your name?” He nodded.
“Oh, Landon, Landon Cooper,” I said. Then with the slightest of disarmed stutters, “Would you like a cup of coffee Mr…?”
“Please, call me Xavier,” he offered politely.
I almost laughed thinking that calling him “Xavier” seemed a thousand times more formal than using any surname I’d ever heard.
“Alright, coffee then Xavier?”
“No thank you, but I would love a spot of tea if you happen to have the leaf in-house.”
“I do,” I said fighting the involuntary raise of my eyebrow. “Will Earl Grey do?”
“Oh yes, that would be splendid,” he said, running his free hand through his silvering dark hair.
I realized that by asking for tea, he had cleverly extended the original terms of his ‘two-minute pitch cap.’ What had I gotten myself into?
As I microwaved the water for his “spot of Tea” I found myself thinking, “spot of tea?” “Did this guy come to the neighborhood in a Tardis?” My next thought was, “This fucker may be completely psycho and looking to eat my liver with those beans and a fine Chianti.”
I mentally checked in with the baseball bat in the hall closet, then the shotgun in the laundry room; took a breath, set the Earl Grey tea bag in the steaming mug and returned to the living room in the full bloom of questioning my sanity for letting this tea drinking stranger into my home.
“Thank you, sir,” he said, taking the mug and bouncing the bag to encourage the darkening of its brew.
“Again I don’t want to waste your time, so I’ll get right to it.” He said, adopting a serious tone and looking me straight in the eye.
“I’m in the business of unique opportunity.” He began, “extremely rare opportunity actually.” He paused, sipping his tea, eyeing me with a calm, confident smile.
“I see,” I said. “And what sort of opportunity are we talking about?” I asked with a hint of polite aggression.
“I’m in the business of second chances,” he offered, taking another sip of tea.
I stared at him. No words formed.
“Yes, it is an unusual product, to be certain.” He offered, “In short supply and little known on the open market.”
My blank stare slowly transformed into an open-mouthed “huh?”
“Mr. Cooper, if you had it to do all over again would you?” He asked.
“Do what all over again?” I’m sure my tone of voice unveiled the blend of curiosity, incredulity, and consternation coursing through my mind. A mind that had minutes before been at relative peace. Which for me is saying something.
“It, all of it, your life!” He stated matter of factly.
“Okay, what the hell,” Was all I could come up with.
He stared into my eyes, took a long sip from his mug then spoke. “I’m am authorized to offer you a do-over; a second go at this very life you are living right now.
“How…what the…how the hell would that work?” I sputtered.
“Very simply actually. You sign a few documents acknowledging your desire to indeed “Do it all over again” then poof, off you go to take a second run at this one life.”
I gaped at him in total disbelief, absent-mindedly spilling a bit of black coffee into my lap.
“Poof!” I stammered. “What exactly do you mean by poof?”
“I mean you would be born again into this world to have another go. Don’t you think it would be amazing to have a second chance at a lifetime here on earth? Think of all the things you could do, create, accomplish with a second chance!” He settled back on the sofa opposite me and waited, unblinking.
“What about this life?” I thought to myself. “I love this life.” I took a gulp of lukewarm coffee which suddenly seem not nearly strong enough.
“Forgive the language Xavier, but what the fuck are you talking about? How the hell would that work and why should it? More importantly, why have I of all people been selected for this, and I quote ‘unique opportunity’?” My voice rising to a crescendo of insolence by the end of the sentence.
“You’ve earned it,” he offered politely. “I understand that this is, well, odd at the very least but I assure you this opportunity is most legitimate. Please take a moment to sit with it. May I refill my tea? The kitchen is just through there yes?”
I nodded. Xavier rose and headed toward the kitchen; the clip-clop of his dress shoes on the hardwoods gradually fading. I fidgeted on the couch, uneasy, certain that I was either dreaming, crazy, or had accidentally made myself an unbelievably strong midday Irish coffee. Not my habit.
“As a rule, there are knives in a kitchen,” I thought. But if he came here for that purpose, he’d most likely have everything he needed for the job in that attaché case of his. I accepted the likelihood that he was not going to the kitchen for a knife and turned my thoughts the far more ridiculous reason for his visit, offering me a do-over!
Was he offering me a second chance at life because I’d fumbled this one? Was the offer a reward, an act of charity, or on a more sinister note, was it a punishment? Was it a test? I took quick synaptic inventory of my many years and saw ample flashes of regret. Yes, I found things I would have done differently if I had them to do over again. I also found moments, hours, years that I would not trade for all the Earl Grey in China or anywhere else. I sipped the now cold coffee.
There are a million ways to do life; to lose and to win, to surrender and just let it happen. There are moments of triumph and moments of regret. There are memories to wish away, others to celebrate. Perhaps, most importantly all those instances are available to make peace with. Though I’m sure these thoughts have lived in my subconscious every day, I realized in that instant that I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, neither am I ashamed of the life I’ve chosen. Are we here to be perfect, or to learn, and grow? And there was the answer. Crashing out of my flashback trance, I released a deep sigh. Mr. Xavier Mulligan returned with his tea, smiling.
“So,” he said, “What’s the verdict?”
“Hmm, Mr. Mulligan?”
“Please, call me Xavier.” He corrected
“Oh right, Xavier, I’m, ah, I’m going to have to say no to your kind offer,” I said with a new found smile.
“Really,” he said taking a sip of what seemed from the copious amount of steam to be scalding hot tea, without wincing.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m grateful for the gesture, and I do believe this is a most rare opportunity indeed. That said, I also realize that the very trip I’m engaged in at this moment is also a rare opportunity. An opportunity to experience my ‘one’ life, complete with all its gifts, and its share of misfortune; experiences which I’m not likely to recapture should I abandon it now.” I said raising my mug to swill the last bit of room temperature clarity.
“I see,” he said. “Understood, understood. Well then, I suppose it is time for me to take my leave as we have no further business here. Before I go, are you absolutely sure of your choice?” He asked.
“Yes, I am,” I said. Then in what appeared to be a choreographed moment we rose simultaneously, his steaming cup still holding court on its coaster. He lifted his attaché, gave a slight bow, and strode toward the front door. I followed and reached to open it as he buttoned his coat.
“Thank you for your time Mr. Cooper, I’m sorry to have wasted it,” He said.
“Not at all Mr. Mulligan, if fact it seems you’ve given me a gift.” I offered.
“Have I?” He smiled. “Excellent!” He said crossing the threshold and making his way down the front steps into the brilliant sunlight of the late spring day.
#fiction
Share this:
The Living Room of an Old Person’s Home
The living room of an old person’s home has a thing about it. “Their thing,” to be precise. Such a place usually has a particular feel, scent, dust/grime quotient, and a frozen in time quality, that is both haunting and intriguing.
The carpet, the furniture, and the wallpaper all have born witness to the arc of a life or lives that have gone from actively growing, reaching, and achieving to stillness, passivity, unwitting disengagement, and ultimately decay. Once the occupants of this place were counted in the numbers of an up and coming vanguard generation. The status quo creaked and groaned under the pressure of the change they demanded, finally acquiescing as a new world was forged by the sheer force of their will. So it is with each generation. Cliche warning: change is the only constant, until it’s not.
“Dad jokes,” ha! The beginning of generational culture division is humorously summarized in those two simple words. Dad jokes are the harbinger of connectivity obsolescence which makes them extra funny, or morbidly awkward. Take your pick.
Getting older is a foregone conclusion, getting wiser is not. Dad jokes are optional. An aging generation can opt for continuing education, the conscious act of learning about and remaining connected to the next generation, or not. These options bear the seeds of individual cultural choice that if not planted wisely may well find their harvest in the living room of an old person’s home.
I’m not saying that redecorating is the key to staying relevant. Of course, such endeavors require the allocation of resources that may or may not be in short supply depending on personal circumstance. Following trends and continually updating one’s position in this world is a slippery slope to be sure. The justification for such efforts is inextricably tied to the end goal. What can we expect a quest for relevance to yield?
Social evolution is historically proven, factually undeniable. To remain relevant one must acknowledge, embrace and act in accordance with the principles lifting that wave. Here we are confronted with the specter of “Identity.” The crescendo of identity formation is represented by the metaphorical “brand new living room” conceived and actualized at the pinnacle of a life where we make our victorious statement, whether we realize it or not. “We’ve arrived,” and here’s the interior design masterpiece to prove it; insert modernist decor, steampunk accoutrements, colonial, mid-century or whatever statement seems fitting to illustrate the reaching of one’s personal triumph at the perceived summit of their material journey. This perch is a victory that in its very achievement can, if we are not vigilant, become a living tomb. An apex reached may by definition offer only descent as a next step. That’s where choice, and particularly choosing to step outside the box becomes an engaging, challenging, potentially life-affirming if ego-threatening moment, and at best, a most welcome alternative to programmed obsolescence.
I’m not suggesting that we don the sailor outfit our mother’s had us wear for our four-year-old portrait, or the nightmare ruffled pastel leisure suit style tuxedo we wore to the prom a thousand years ago. I am however suggesting that resting on accomplishments of any kind leads to the possibility of disconnection from the inevitable; from tomorrow, the day after, and so on. Retaining accrued wisdom while remaining open to fresh, if potentially identity challenging perspectives means we still get to be ourselves, but in liquid rather than solid form, metaphorically speaking.
Being relevant is not an inalienable human right. Being relevant is a quest that requires constant attention, adjustment, acceptance of that we do not yet fully understand, and most importantly the willingness to allow for the possibility that identity is ephemeral. In the game of relevance, personal commitment to evolution is the only winning strategy. Identity, if not fluid, becomes the anchor that prevents us from riding the wave of social metamorphosis. The real kicker is that our identity issues have the superpower of invisibility as it relates to our ability to honestly see ourselves as others see us. Ugh!
If I find myself in the weeks leading up to my death stripping wallpaper, tearing up carpet, and fondling paint samples, it will be no more than a physical manifestation of my desire to understand the current consciousness of my children’s or my children’s children’s world. My last valiant effort to understand and assimilate the language, challenges, and opportunities that are continuously spawning in perpetuity outside the soul prison walls of the living room of an old person’s home.
#metaphor
You must be logged in to post a comment.