Saturday, June 18, 2016

Under our bridge

Communication is this process of bettering one's otherness with one's chivalry. It would be quite useless if oneself and one's otherness both perceived everything the same. It is useful when attempting to warn the otherness of potential calamity such as “There's a wasp on your earlobe,” or attempting some humour such as “We should tighten our Canadian borders to keep those shoddy made in the USA products off our shelves.” Now it behooves us as to what exactly it is we are communicating to our dear wife who is luxuriating in a swanky care home in freedom from philosophical concerns when we tell her about our life living in the comforts found under our bridge.

Yes we live under a bridge, on the River Red, the Lord Musum presiding, with our cow named Bessy and our two cats named Moses and Blacky, the two names she remembers not remembering ours. We sit in front of our air conditioner to keep cool on the hot days, which she thinks is plain ridiculous but makes her chuckle, and our flat screen tv has no picture because the cable company won't take 'under the bridge' as a reliable address. We scrub our clothes on the rocks by the river and hang them to dry on lines tied to the pillars.

We tell her this tale because we do not wish to remind her of the comforts of Deathrock Apartments, and the shooting and gang warfare which is a nightly affair and might instill a nostalgia from her memories, this sonance being such a lulling experience much like a mile long freight train with four whistling locomotives which puts oneself to sleep at night when one lives near the tracks under the bridge. It makes us ponder though, why do we have to make up a fantasy life at all? Could we not just discuss the weather and watch the ants hard at work on the sidewalk? But no, we must live under a bridge.

It seems a product of lethargy, utter boredom at the thought of sitting there together, contemplating the great universe with twisted tangled memories, popping childhood friends into the rompings of adult misadventures. Better to make up a new life, free from reminiscence so she can tell the workers “This is my husband, he lives under a bridge.” Gets us looks of anxious unease and a helping of tuna sandwich and purple juice at snack time. Not sure if they vacuum for bugs after we leave, but the muddy footprints have all but disappeared by the next day, our wife being more keen on this than we are.

Communication would seem therefor to behold itself as something more than imparting transient information. It's the vibes that matter, so to speak, the tears and the laughter, the joy of meeting and the anguish of parting. The Lord Musum must be proud of us. In his benevolent generosity we have not had a flood this year, on the River Red, and our bridge is high and dry. We'll take it as a sign from the Ziggurat, rising from mighty ramparts on the River Red above our bridge. We will take comfort in his revelations as he lights up our flat screen tv every evening allowing us to ravish in his princely divine powers. Oh Lord Musum we await your chivalry.
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