Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Adventures of a neurotic soul












In a creamy dreamy world we are in an enclave, an old fashioned manufactory of sorts, tables and benches with odd spindly looking machines and wares of some unknowable variety scattered in rough piles here and there. No one seems to be working, they're standing in an unkempt group discussing something or other. So we wander on through the shop and out a rear door onto a path, a dirt path in a neighbourhood of dwellings, tin and tile roofs divided by narrow yards cluttered with fences and gates and pathways between the homes. Our path is higher than the roofs on a bit of built up dike of sorts, odd in a rather dry region, the path as the major thoroughfare to the world at large.

We take a slight venture through a narrow walkway between some houses, through the open gates where cats and small dogs play with children who treat us as part of their domain with little acknowledgement. We find our way back to the built up path trimmed with unmown grasses, being detoured by a myriad of fences and miscellany of no drastic significance, finding ourselves dealing with a less than well healed individual who would wish to trounce us of some cash for a pile of corrugated tin, us finding a hole just large enough to squeeze through to our freedom. We wander further along to come to a more suburban locality, with streets wide enough for vehicles of the four wheeled sort although there are none to be seen, and we wander along from one intriguing district to the next, the roads becoming ever more wide to allow for two lanes of motored four wheel vehicles although there are none to be seen, and the homes become much more 20th century in their construction with concrete sidewalks leading to locked doors.

We wander on, finally arriving at a cul-de-sac on the edge of a vast prairie, endless fields of grasses, tousled heads to go to seed for a new generation. We wander that cul-de-sac searching for that little home where something of a familiar nature might impinge on our awareness, but it is in vain. That home does not happen in this local. Into the grass fields we wander, coming upon a set of stairs which lead to, in their stairwell, a floor of hotel rooms, and a bellhop who turns out to be a modest unnameable fling from our remotest past who leads us to our room, number 306, but we are distracted by some fascinating reflection in the window at the end of the hallway, and we gaze in lost oblivion at the miles of grasses below, blowing in the breeze.

We venture back down the stairway and embark on a journey to a distant city where we once abode, in disoriented younger times when life played itself out in episodes ill guided by hormones and insurrection. Our spirit glides along by default, sometimes on foot, other times on a bicycle, following the roads built by civilization often leading to impasses in squared miles of dirt trails in bush with no thoroughfare ever forthcoming, and back to the main arteries we must detour in this flight across the continent.

We arrive in that distant city through some perplexing perseverance, and ascend a stairwell in a dormitory where we once sought escapades of enlightenment in the unhinged past. It is with some confusion as to which floor to venture into, the residents seeming polite enough, but in a very different plight of consciousness than that which we possess. We head on through a hallway and into the halls and chambers of discourse, to be smitten by the confusion regarding issues of religion and edification. So off into the big city we adventure, investigating a lowly apartment complex with doors which no longer close squarely to hide the ravages of poverty caused by life's complexities. Our room is entranced through the rooms of other residents who hide their modesty under quilts and ragged blankets and who try in vain to ignore our passage.

We morph along, out into the squalor and five way intersections of convoluted traffic snarls, who shielded in their motor cars in their journeys between work and play, bypass the scumbaggy downtown folk. Weaving through the cluttered sidewalks we hit upon the loneliest drag imaginable, a decrepit nauseating stretch of filth enlivened by dark and foul smelling doorways with the odd lurking character. We enter one, an oriental couple's eatery of sorts within which we have never seen another customer, and they emerge from their rear dwellings to fry up hamburger on toasted bun with few fixings. Next, into a hotel we navigate, a hostel with interior balconies reeking of stale spilt and regurgitated liquors of unknown qualities. We take a room, paid in advance by ill gained credit and enter the elevator. The door opens to a spacious conclave, with college students between classes enjoying the freedoms of expression lounging in brightly coloured chairs.

We walk the long hallway to the far end where a set of wide stairs takes us down to the entrance, a confusing revolving door with mirrors in place of clear pains within and without and by the time we navigate our way out the world is lost of it's purview. Onto the sidewalks we continue, finding the rear entrance to an enticing huge underground mall. Down the escalator we descend to pass the kiosks and thriving stores which fulfill the dreams of the realms of ear pierced, nose pierced, belly button pierced, tattooed from head to toe, almost stark naked with hair the colour of the rainbows on a mystical planet, the descendants of Adam and Eve masticating on the apple of sinful idolatrous obsessions, but jealousy gets us naught. We continue along, the halls becoming more and more barren as we approach offices with ten foot high clouded glass doors with embedded black lettered signage, obscuring their secrets to the outside world.

It is here we find a back stairwell which leads down to a tunnel, the mother of all tunnels. It starts at roughly eight feet wide and eight feet high, nicely tiled floor, soothing cinder block walls, park benches to rest upon. Mile after mile it snakes along, heavy metal doors appearing every quarter mile or so to open to another identical section. We walk along for the better part of a day, occasionally passing a seated stranger lost in thought and often wearing a brightly coloured hat. A section with small venues selling trinkets and fast foods seems not out of place as we journey on. Through another set of steel doors and the tunnel begins to adorn itself with roughly carved walls through clay and rock, the path becoming ever narrower strewn with boulders and debris. The steel doors seem replaced by narrow cavities, smallish holes in rock which one must crawl through into the next even narrower section.

On and on we venture, squeezing by strangers as they approach from the distance. Then looming in the distance we begin to sense some fresh air and our expectations heighten as we approach a circular chamber carved from the earth, rough walls reaching stories high to the light above. Rope ladders with rungs cut from dead boughs hang from above, never reaching the conclave. Souls clamber up and down, some dropping to their fate on the cold rock floor beneath. In the conclave is a bottomless cavity to the bowels of the earth, a modern elevator taking us down, stopping at every subterranean level, doors opening to an ever more challenging array of pillars and beams supporting the structures above. The elevator finally thuds to a stop on the bottom level, seems no one has come this low in millenniums, and the door opens to a rocky den, a steel doored crypt the subject of our supplication. It is locked.

Mystery upon mystery, it is now open, our crypt, the brightly lit the interior holding a key, a gem of great significance to no one in particular. Into the vault we climb, gem in hand and emerge from a wooden attic through a trap door into a closet where we stealthfully make our way down a narrow wooden staircase to the main floors of an oldish wooden mansion where we can blend in with others, never divulging our good fortunes.
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