The buzz is stimulating, perhaps too much so. Their
characteristics a smorgousboard of much and many - worth thousands of words
combined; long minutes to the individual.
The scene is lively, bursting
with energy - perhaps the buzz has them, too? A lady waters flowers, a small
girl plays the sad card to her mother; older women chat their gossip about what
intrigues their taste for drama as the older man group – regulars at the
morning's weekday frenzy – disbands and goes about their day.
Outside, men discuss over plans
of the physical sort, referring to different things with their hand gestures.
With the onset of June comes a shift, perceivable and recognizable. Do you feel
it?
A pregnant woman walks in –
nothing unusual and yet there is a kinder regard for her, as if she holds
something important.
Like a typical buzz, artificially
induced or not, there reaches a point when you level-off and mellow-in. This is
where the vibe is. The ladies pour on, leaning in to listen intently to what
the others are saying – conveying real interest. The older man group, in a
surprising shift of tides, grows instead of dwindling. When one leaves, the
lazy Susan keeps rotating to reveal a new face to the group. Bikes with people
on them come and go, as do dogs on leashes – some with their mouths tied close
to prevent biting or chiding.
A blonde Jackie O comes in the
door – complete with the lacy trimmed dress and stylistic Jackie O sunglasses.
And on and on...this buzz will continue to climb and level, eventually reaching
a climax for most, though the inevitable burst of late bloomers will hit at
their premeditated rise to the top within the hours of the day they see fit.
Perhaps this is getting on with what it all is: the freedom to choose.
Just maybe, possibly, this is the
most intoxicating – even more than the buzz we imbibe, swallow, inhale, inject,
snort, gurgle, lick, suckle, apply etc. And, do we know this?
Do the individual sums in the
total understand their gravity in the mathematical arithmetic? Their butter in
the cake batter, chip in the bingo game, or teeth in the cogged machine?
Do I even understand? I, the man
alongside the outside boundary, reasonably comfortable in my perch; soaking up
the refracted rays to photosynthesize these words – the words of a wallflower
amidst the daises, dosies, floozies, flimbos, and snuffleupaguses. Of all
shapes, though mostly white, like I. And perhaps that drives the nail home into
the wood: this is a racially sterile environment, a greenhouse in which one can
flourish – day after day.
Fortunately, when I was created,
I was not confined to be bound to the pot of existence, yet exited the womb of
life to walk upon legs. As I'm doing as soon as I finish this sentence.
See you in the sun,
Alan
