Take a seat in the middle of grey room, interrogation light on, hum of pulsating energy. No windows, just walls. Solid concrete. Is it womb or incubator? Freezing cold no comfort, I must go with the latter. The chair is plain. Now it rises off the ground, transcending time in space and changes form in to a folding chair. It is now in the ring. It is WWE and it is getting WACKED against the back of a muscled man. The crowd cheers and hollers. It is painful entertainment. It is raining medical bills and cartoon stars and there goes Roadrunner, taking off. Wile E. Coyote is trapped under an Anvil in the middle of the ring, the official makes the count and declares it a KO. More cheers, the crowd goes wild for Wile E. It’s is 1930s stock footage, black and white with too fast applause. Different camera angles of the crowd, but everyone looks the same. Smell the sweat in the ring. Blinding lights from the center. It’s the poor man’s Carnegie Hall and why not? Why not? Tasting the blood from a split lip, this wrestler, this champion, this golden belt wielding masterpiece. It is iron-tasting, metallic biology. It is the frog on the dissection table. It smells of death and formaldehyde. You can never forget what that smells like. You can never forget this moments of mass hysteria. Mass barbaric enjoyment. What would the Romans say to floodlights and announcers? Peanuts and popcorn and “ice cold beer!” in the Coliseum? Neon signs and traffic after the event is over? Romans watching television? Would it have fallen faster? Are we falling? Only to land on chairs in the after life? “Welcome to the room, Sara”. Will Fleetwood Mac play in the waiting room and we twiddle our thumbs and read old magazines, waiting to meet God? Is everyone flipping out, or are we just flippant? Feeling bad on being unable to focus a thought, but isn’t this focusing? Isn’t this what we want? If I can be the judge and jury, maybe I can be the student and teacher. Was nails against chalkboard ever really that bad? Chairs and tables and Thanksgiving dinner. Four-legged friends. Mel Gibson and the rocking chair.
“Please come dive in puddles with me” – It seems every word leads to a Saves The Day song. London raindrops hitting cobblestones and washing away chalk pavement pictures in some Mary Poppins alternate reality. It could be happening right now. Puddle as in, a small shallow pool of water. But it could be more than water. It could be blood. It could be orange juice. Breakfast table set with eggs and bacon and fresh fruit. Maybe oranges that I will not eat and keep to the side. “Order up!” bell goes off in an old fashioned diner on this Black Friday morning. Black Friday, which I once wrote a song about 5 years ago. I first attempt into my 24/7 project. Galoshes splash. Waking up from a thought. Bringing one back to reality. The sky is overcast and grey and I feel a chill in the air. Dampness pervades even the thickest of layers. Why go outside if you don’t have to? The world looks like a black and white movie, devoid of color. The smell of damp earth and the pores of the world open up to receive a big, long drink. The drops of rain hit my glasses and I leave them there, my vision blurred, it’s useless. I probably don’t have an umbrella. It’s too much to carry around. Too much to think about. I’d rather just get wet – The feeling when you step into a puddle and it’s deeper than you thought. Or maybe there was no choice, no way around it. Both sneaker and sock completely saturated. First there is surprise and disbelief. Then, there is resigned acceptance of what just occurred. Knowing you can’t do anything unless you have an extra pair of socks and shoes with you. Oh, but that “splooshy” sound every time you walk. It can get so annoying. The damp foot, now growing cold, gets so uncomfortable. Coldness mixed with wetness is one of the worst feelings. The “moat” that forms on Broadway and 66th street. What a mess. The times I’ve gotten splashed by passing cars on the side of the curb on a rainy day.