greybeard
Well-known member
In the beginning, comes the race. Jockey for position, swerve, honk, point, wait? no--just gun & go for it and your in before anyone else. The old hag in the Suburban scowls. She was never in the running--just thought she was.
Your destination reached, you're in & it really begins. Right away it begins. The noticing. Blank stares, shiftless masses- shifting anyway, moving against the tide--and rarely with it. Above, the eyes in the sky, thru globes of smoked acrylic, peer down on this sea of seemingly disorganized humanity. Are they-or maybe just empty sockets-watching but not watching? The noise---the deafening noise, those not speaking to you but you hear it still, the parts of their lives, all the drama, the sins, the joys, the anger-- all their dirty despicable little secrets.
Choices are made, your duty done, your load heavy, you trudge on, back to the beginning, and take your place at the end.
The Din, barely audible, but deafening, without any more than a few words actually discernible. Time now, to try to really notice. The old guy in the propelled vehicle that makes no sound--neither does he. The 20ish looking girl, struggling with a toddler-dad not to be found, nor is the wedding ring. Old before her time the revealing black around her eyes. The high school girls, also older than their years, are followed by their pale opposites, who hope to make contact of any kind, via some sort of telepathic means, but are on the wrong frequency. The occasional wandering by of the blue shirts-doing something, but never seeming to be doing anything, just walking about in the throng. Ironically, all are devoid of any semblance of emotion in their faces, tho constantly surrounded by bright smiley faces. The post high school 2some, the pale winter skin contrasted by brightly lettered "Hook'em Horns' shirts, (who a year before would never be caught dead in burnt orange), look about in some sort of self inflicted aloofness. "Look at us" is what the shirts really say. The Din roars on quietly, above it all, some unintelligible words of electronic origin--warns, pleads, exclaims, informs and thanks. A baby cries somewhere, but is unceremoniously drowned out by The Din of constant murmurs. The hum is deafening--is it real--or perhaps it's all in your head-those semi-voices? Not a word can be misunderstood-are they all whispering? Even the couple 2 feet in front of you? Lips move, a sound comes out--what language is that? Yours, but not meant for you to hear or understand, but still you do. You should be able to understand-after all, just an arm's length away. No, not really whispering, just drowned out by the total sum of the others. The Din. Wait, then shuffle ahead wait some more. How many thousands before you have done the same? In this very spot? 10s of thousands? More? Nameless thousands-some no longer on this earth. There is no Din where they now forever sleep.
An old enough to know better, 40s something woman, is wedged into jeans that may have looked good on her 15 years ago, and a t-top that probably was lifted from her daughter's closet, reveals thru the sadness in her eyes, the stresses of 2 decades of family life. In a better time, homecoming queen/cheerleader. Not to be seen now, just fading memories. Where did it go?
Up ahead, 2 young, conspicuously neatly groomed waifs wait on a bench, quietly fidgeting, as a related oldster reads the evening news, and oblivious to the nothing going on around him, somehow holds the two boys in check from running about--by some invisible cord. Only unspoken words are exchanged between the 3---covertly encrypted as glances. Sent, deciphered, and received, obeyed. The boys are on the receiving end. The glances are louder and sterner than The Din.
At last, it's your turn, to pay the piper, and be thanked, tho the person doing the thanking doesn't really mean it. A never ending trail of forlorn looking pedestrians stream past her, each taking their turn at the mundane tradition we are all so familiar with.
Out away from the coldness of the crowd, into an air that seems so much warmer, tho in fact it's 20 degrees below the artificial atmosphere you just left. What's that? You can hear voices-and understand the words. They're 20 feet away and you understand perfectly. How can that be? You leave this place, and let those others run their short little races, to vie for the few sq yards of asphalt you just vacated. They too will soon add their own silent voices to The Din.
Your destination reached, you're in & it really begins. Right away it begins. The noticing. Blank stares, shiftless masses- shifting anyway, moving against the tide--and rarely with it. Above, the eyes in the sky, thru globes of smoked acrylic, peer down on this sea of seemingly disorganized humanity. Are they-or maybe just empty sockets-watching but not watching? The noise---the deafening noise, those not speaking to you but you hear it still, the parts of their lives, all the drama, the sins, the joys, the anger-- all their dirty despicable little secrets.
Choices are made, your duty done, your load heavy, you trudge on, back to the beginning, and take your place at the end.
The Din, barely audible, but deafening, without any more than a few words actually discernible. Time now, to try to really notice. The old guy in the propelled vehicle that makes no sound--neither does he. The 20ish looking girl, struggling with a toddler-dad not to be found, nor is the wedding ring. Old before her time the revealing black around her eyes. The high school girls, also older than their years, are followed by their pale opposites, who hope to make contact of any kind, via some sort of telepathic means, but are on the wrong frequency. The occasional wandering by of the blue shirts-doing something, but never seeming to be doing anything, just walking about in the throng. Ironically, all are devoid of any semblance of emotion in their faces, tho constantly surrounded by bright smiley faces. The post high school 2some, the pale winter skin contrasted by brightly lettered "Hook'em Horns' shirts, (who a year before would never be caught dead in burnt orange), look about in some sort of self inflicted aloofness. "Look at us" is what the shirts really say. The Din roars on quietly, above it all, some unintelligible words of electronic origin--warns, pleads, exclaims, informs and thanks. A baby cries somewhere, but is unceremoniously drowned out by The Din of constant murmurs. The hum is deafening--is it real--or perhaps it's all in your head-those semi-voices? Not a word can be misunderstood-are they all whispering? Even the couple 2 feet in front of you? Lips move, a sound comes out--what language is that? Yours, but not meant for you to hear or understand, but still you do. You should be able to understand-after all, just an arm's length away. No, not really whispering, just drowned out by the total sum of the others. The Din. Wait, then shuffle ahead wait some more. How many thousands before you have done the same? In this very spot? 10s of thousands? More? Nameless thousands-some no longer on this earth. There is no Din where they now forever sleep.
An old enough to know better, 40s something woman, is wedged into jeans that may have looked good on her 15 years ago, and a t-top that probably was lifted from her daughter's closet, reveals thru the sadness in her eyes, the stresses of 2 decades of family life. In a better time, homecoming queen/cheerleader. Not to be seen now, just fading memories. Where did it go?
Up ahead, 2 young, conspicuously neatly groomed waifs wait on a bench, quietly fidgeting, as a related oldster reads the evening news, and oblivious to the nothing going on around him, somehow holds the two boys in check from running about--by some invisible cord. Only unspoken words are exchanged between the 3---covertly encrypted as glances. Sent, deciphered, and received, obeyed. The boys are on the receiving end. The glances are louder and sterner than The Din.
At last, it's your turn, to pay the piper, and be thanked, tho the person doing the thanking doesn't really mean it. A never ending trail of forlorn looking pedestrians stream past her, each taking their turn at the mundane tradition we are all so familiar with.
Out away from the coldness of the crowd, into an air that seems so much warmer, tho in fact it's 20 degrees below the artificial atmosphere you just left. What's that? You can hear voices-and understand the words. They're 20 feet away and you understand perfectly. How can that be? You leave this place, and let those others run their short little races, to vie for the few sq yards of asphalt you just vacated. They too will soon add their own silent voices to The Din.
