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by OPOVV, ©2020

Photo: Hans, Pixabay, License

(Sep. 10, 2020) — “Any Road” (3:51)

“Hark yonder. What, pray tell, are you doing? Are you contemplating the wonders of the universe, or, perchance, just wasted, doing nothing of consequence, like a squashed rodent under the wheel of an ox cart or a war horse’s hoof, flattened like a pancake, as flat as can be imagined.”

“I can, truth to tell, imagine my bank account flat; I can imagine a day-old beer flat; my neighbor’s son hitting every flat key on the harpsichord. Be that as it may, what concern is it of yours, begging you pardon, of my leisure time? I am, if you must know, in the ‘state of contemplation’; in the throes of making up my mind. It is, surprisingly, a very taxing occupation; of this you can be assured. And if it’ll make you feel any better and if it’ll make me feel any better, pity me in my dilemma.”

“Pity you? Never! You are but a scoundrel, wasting the day away. Why, don’t you know that the only thing any of us has is time, and you’re wasting it. Pity? I say not; I say never; and I say, sorry, not any today; I’m all spent of pity. You see, I have only enough for myself, and no other. By the way, I see no sweat on your brow, so how taxing can your ‘contemplation’ possibly be? Show me evidence of toil; give evidence of gnashing; let me hear a howl or two, reminiscent of hungry wolves chasing Tolstoy‘s buggy through newly-fallen snow, with the moonlight reflected like sparkling diamonds; the breath from the equines looking like steam from the spout of a teapot; like the breaking of the crust of snow, similar to the sound of a graham cracker broken along the perforated lines, nice and crisp and not cross-wise, sounding mute and muffled.”

“Oh, now am I to pity you, you who haven’t a clue? But, being calm and collected, I will give you a hint, a hint, mind you, for to articulate the whole argument would be too painful for even my own ears to hear or voice to speak. Here is the hint: the question does not lend itself to ‘undecided.’ There, now I said it and now I shall retreat back to Square One, right where I was when you interrupted my solitude, my escape from the day’s turmoil’s, my last refuge to collect myself, if you don’t mind.”

“Mind? Now why should I mind? I was just curious as to what you were up to in a one-up sort of way. Admit it: you were doing nothing but sitting on the bench, not moving or whistling; not carving a treed critter to decorate a cuckoo clock; not reading the Good Book, memorizing such important passages such as Mathew 23: The Golden Rule.”

“Which you don’t practice.”

“Pardon me?”

“You heard me, you don’t practice what you preach. I was sitting here minding my own business and then you interrupted me inquiring into my state of mind, as if my repose was unsettling to you. Of course, I could be wrong and if I am, my humblest apologies, I think.”

“You think? I believe I am insulted, and that I can’t ignore. I think I must challenge you to a duel.”

“Hold it just a minute, if you don’t mind. I was just sitting here trying to decide whether I vote for Trump or not vote for Trump, but, you, sir, have just decided for me, and for that I must thank you profusely. Thank you many times over. My mind is made up, thanks to you, for I can sense that you are a cruel spoiled brat, bothering a person who has never done you a lick of harm; someone who you never saw before; someone you don’t even know by reputation. You challenge me to a duel for some imagined slight when it was you who started the conversation in the first place. Just curious, but why couldn’t you leave well enough alone?”

“You offend me, is the bottom line; you talk logically and are wiling to prove your points; you have an air of superiority by sitting on this bench all by yourself, as if it is your bench exclusively through the hardship of others who forested the trees, milled the wood, assembled the pieces and transported this bench to this place so only you can repose upon it while contemplating.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. However, I grow bored with your meaningless ramble, I’m sorry to say. You read Karl Marx but you didn’t read Aldous Huxley, the predictor of problems inherent with Communism. You didn’t read T.H. White because, if you did, you would be on my side, on the Trump side of history, rather than on the wrong bus going the wrong way. I think I’ll feel sorry for you, but then again, maybe not. I am leaving, and if you thwart my efforts I shall most decidedly defeat you, here and in the future. You are a lost cause; Socialism is lost; the Democratic Party is lost; Biden is lost.”

“I protest.”

“Of course you do, because to do any other would be to admit you just spent the last few years of your time here on earth believing in the Russian Hoax; in Obama’s ‘Yes We Can’; in nothing but hot air and lies. Excuse me, please, but I am no longer ‘undecided,’ but a fully committed Trumpster, and for that I thank you. And now my last words to you will be goodnight: Goodnight.”


So Long, Farewell” (1:49)


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