ZEN NOIR
The hardest journey is the one which leads to the truth. I didn't know that when I began my little midnight ramble. If I had, I probably would've stayed home, drank myself stupid and watched Ferguson until the big nod closed my book for the day. But there I was, standing outside her house, looking up at her bedroom window while a cold rain whipped me in the face like I'd somehow pissed it off. I could see her kissing him. I could see her as she slowly descended beneath the window frame. I could see him too. He just stood there smiling, like the canary who got eaten by the cat. But then a funny thing happened while I was dancing the voyeuristic bebop in my terribly trendy, bright-green plastic shoes. I found myself thinking that the aching loneliness I was feeling had its roots in something much deeper than being eighty-sixed to a one bedroom efficiency in the marina by a dame who digs deep into the degrading bang-bang in order to make up for an emotionally distant father. No, this was the pain of existential separateness. The false sense that one is fundamentally apart from people, things, life, the whole damn universe. In a blinding flash I realized that what I was really experiencing was the result of a life-long indoctrination by a culture which elevates individualism above all else, thus causing a soul-crushing sense of aloneness which demands over and under the counter medication, the constant distraction of sporting events, TV, major motion pictures and a pop-tabloid religion based on celebrity worship/crucifixion. Of course this epiphany did not deter me from pulling the roscoe out of my fanny pack and going into the house to TC of B. As I crossed up the stairs I could feel my wet tube socks squishing through the little round holes of my polyurethane crocs.
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