As the earth shifts slightly toward its autumnal equinox, my evening commutes become increasingly shrouded in darkness. Red taillights are blood flowing through a large, manmade circulatory system and as I pass through the portal intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry, I notice Robert Lochaven riding shotgun, chugging a large bottle of water, the unintended consequence of massive salt intake.
It has been a long, arduous day and my mind is foggy at best. The sensation of swimming in thick, buttery milk comes directly to mind, not unlike the effects of mind-numbing prescription drugs that take you floating around the fringes of reality.
Sitting there in relative comfortable silence, time seems to halt completely until the bubble bursts and we finally speak our mind.
Self-taught to question everything I ask Robert Lochaven, "is this eventually your car or something?"
"I'd prefer a Camero, but this will do, if that's what you mean. When's the last time you had the oil changed?"
Looking at the clear, plastic sticker in the upper left hand corner of the windshield I come close to answering the question in literal terms but cut myself short.
"Are you for real?"
He does not seem disturbed by the questioning, in fact he seems to have expected it. He dutifully responds with a barrage of pointed questions of his own.
"Are you for real? Is Mitch for real? Is any of this for real? No doubt referencing the Royal 'Any of This' as he makes motions with his hands to indicate an all encompassing insinuation. "You think I'm some sort of Pareidolia? An Apophenia maybe?"
I have no clue what those are and have no answer for Robert Lochaven. I pick up on the fact that his questions are rhetorical anyhow.
"For what it's worth, I am just as for real as you are for real," and then wraps the topic up in a nice ribbon with some conditional logic. "If you are for real, and if I am just as for real as you are for real, then it follows that I am, without question, for real."
It's difficult to argue against that. Although I wonder how he knows about Mitch.
The remainder of our encounter finds Robert Lochaven rambling on about the man on the moon, animal shaped clouds, and hearing specific messages in rock music when played in reverse. Apparently, according to Robert Lochaven, there is a basic, human tendency to seek meaningful connections within random sets of collected data.
Again, I can not argue against this air-tight thought process.
The last thing he says to me as we travel through the opposite side of the portal intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry is, "Oh, by the way, I told you so."
Nonplussed, I respond with a question of my own, "Told me so what?!"
And just like that, he is gone. I hesitate to ask the nature of Robert Lochaven's visits in any of our encounters and assume he's merely tagging along to assist in my inevitable leap off of the deep end.
The blood flow of traffic concludes as I pull into my driveway. The day now resides in the rearview mirror.
It has been a long, arduous day and my mind is foggy at best. The sensation of swimming in thick, buttery milk comes directly to mind, not unlike the effects of mind-numbing prescription drugs that take you floating around the fringes of reality.
Sitting there in relative comfortable silence, time seems to halt completely until the bubble bursts and we finally speak our mind.
Self-taught to question everything I ask Robert Lochaven, "is this eventually your car or something?"
"I'd prefer a Camero, but this will do, if that's what you mean. When's the last time you had the oil changed?"
Looking at the clear, plastic sticker in the upper left hand corner of the windshield I come close to answering the question in literal terms but cut myself short.
"Are you for real?"
He does not seem disturbed by the questioning, in fact he seems to have expected it. He dutifully responds with a barrage of pointed questions of his own.
"Are you for real? Is Mitch for real? Is any of this for real? No doubt referencing the Royal 'Any of This' as he makes motions with his hands to indicate an all encompassing insinuation. "You think I'm some sort of Pareidolia? An Apophenia maybe?"
I have no clue what those are and have no answer for Robert Lochaven. I pick up on the fact that his questions are rhetorical anyhow.
"For what it's worth, I am just as for real as you are for real," and then wraps the topic up in a nice ribbon with some conditional logic. "If you are for real, and if I am just as for real as you are for real, then it follows that I am, without question, for real."
It's difficult to argue against that. Although I wonder how he knows about Mitch.
The remainder of our encounter finds Robert Lochaven rambling on about the man on the moon, animal shaped clouds, and hearing specific messages in rock music when played in reverse. Apparently, according to Robert Lochaven, there is a basic, human tendency to seek meaningful connections within random sets of collected data.
Again, I can not argue against this air-tight thought process.
The last thing he says to me as we travel through the opposite side of the portal intersection of West Kennedy Boulevard and Dale Mabry is, "Oh, by the way, I told you so."
Nonplussed, I respond with a question of my own, "Told me so what?!"
And just like that, he is gone. I hesitate to ask the nature of Robert Lochaven's visits in any of our encounters and assume he's merely tagging along to assist in my inevitable leap off of the deep end.
The blood flow of traffic concludes as I pull into my driveway. The day now resides in the rearview mirror.
Today's Jazz Hands had a specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness within the ambiguous confines of reality's blurred boundaries.
Day two-hundred and sixty-two complete.
Day two-hundred and sixty-two complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment