As I ritualistically pass along the icons of my morning commute, the sun does not shine upon my face. It is a relatively cool and damp Southerly Southland thus far, a fine mist accumulates on the windshield of my gas guzzling trolley as incremental progress toward familiarity and expectation plod forward.
There is Becky, her memorial decorated with fresh Poinsettias.
There is Keith, his memorial still decorated with the helmet he wore the day he indirectly chose to expedite his inevitability.
Somber reminders that death is the ultimate price we pay for life, the two intimately tied together, inseparable from the first beat of the heart to the last. How the moments between are spent is entirely up to us, however. Don't mistake this gift as freedom, familiarity and expectation keep us firmly fixed to our own misguided cycles. Abstract realities flicker and dance before us, mere shadows cast by the candlelight.
My bags are packed and there is no turning back.
From the beginning of this specific journey, the concept of deploying Jazz Hands in the mirror for the entire year thrust me out of a comfort zone. A valuable lesson indeed, learning that discomfort is a large percentage of an equation within the pursuit of freedom. From my experience I'd say it's close to 99%.
I will walk into my fabrication of a workplace amongst the actors and stage crew and I will graciously decline the opportunity to partake in the generalized holiday outing, an escape unto itself. Employees clamoring for an opportunity to extend a lunch hour on ironic Friday, leaving the entire department and majority of the facility vacant for a long stretch of time, save for two.
I have a bit of a headache, I have much to accomplish prior to the start of the weekend, I'm allergic to political correctness, all valid reasons for non-participation. All excuses, manufactured as much as our relevance within these orchards of commerce.
The real reason is that I have someone to murder.
We are born with our id intact, the only portion of our personality that exists from the very beginning of life. Carrying this with us forever, if not tempered, can internally destroy the opportunity to fully mature. Emotional attachments to the past, these artifacts within our psyche are a weighty burden. In many ways, this author represents the id. In a sense, id is our natural tendency to cling to the past. If I am the id, then it stands to reason I am history.
Our super ego develops over time as self-awareness slowly filters into our consciousness. This is the part of our psyche that clouds reason with doubt and is a road block for the chances we must take in life. Fear resides within the super ego, wanting nothing more than to adhere to expectation, regardless of origin, and never dares to step outside of familiarity. In many ways the id and the super ego share much in common, however if the id wants to cling to the past, the super ego belittles the need causing an internal firestorm. In a sense, the super ego is our natural tendency to linger within the present far too long, preventing progress, whether it is expedited or incremental. If Mitch is the super ego, then it stands to reason that his bubble is about to burst.
This leaves ego, our heroic voice of reason. Mediating the senseless needs and suppressive doubt, the ego is the symbol of balance and stability. The ego understands necessary risks, moving out from under the umbrella of comfort zones and is willing to destroy road blocks before it in order to march forward. This is the voice that assesses the world on its own terms and enables progress. In a sense, the ego is our natural tendency to intelligently redefine reality and move toward a future filled with hope and promise. If Robert Lochaven is the ego, then it stands to reason that we have not seen the last of him.
As it turns out, we've had three opposing forces, two antagonistic alter egos and our hero, competing for the same space all this time.
As the collective group of eager coworkers depart, Mitch and I will bid them a final farewell.
Within the heart of the vacant building, we shall fetch our backpacks and empty their contents, beginning our game of hide and seek. For starters, Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 35 is played and set to repeat, representing the cycle of life and our propensity as a human race to recreate a system of failure, resulting in a pattern of senseless death and destruction over and over and over again.
We take the pouches of blood we've been extracting from ourselves for the past forty-two days, three pints each, and liberate the crimson contents throughout the room. Combined, the six pints represent enough blood to fill one man's entire circulatory system. For the past forty-two days, incremental withdraws have been taken and the contents have been stored at forty-two degrees fahrenheit, the preferred temperature for storing blood for said timeframe. Thanks again to Harold Meryman and his cow experiments for guiding us toward the appropriate blood storage processes. And thanks be to the kind Blood Bus employees for allowing me to quiz them relentlessly on extraction techniques and then also for leaving some supplies accessible for stealthy acquisitions. The needles, the bandages, the tubing and the plastic pouch thingies (I believe that's the clinical term used for the bags blood is ultimately stored within) all attained enabling the initial stages of the game.
Within the heart of the vacant building, we shall fetch our backpacks and empty their contents, beginning our game of hide and seek. For starters, Chopin's Piano Sonata No. 2 in B-Flat Minor, Op. 35 is played and set to repeat, representing the cycle of life and our propensity as a human race to recreate a system of failure, resulting in a pattern of senseless death and destruction over and over and over again.
We take the pouches of blood we've been extracting from ourselves for the past forty-two days, three pints each, and liberate the crimson contents throughout the room. Combined, the six pints represent enough blood to fill one man's entire circulatory system. For the past forty-two days, incremental withdraws have been taken and the contents have been stored at forty-two degrees fahrenheit, the preferred temperature for storing blood for said timeframe. Thanks again to Harold Meryman and his cow experiments for guiding us toward the appropriate blood storage processes. And thanks be to the kind Blood Bus employees for allowing me to quiz them relentlessly on extraction techniques and then also for leaving some supplies accessible for stealthy acquisitions. The needles, the bandages, the tubing and the plastic pouch thingies (I believe that's the clinical term used for the bags blood is ultimately stored within) all attained enabling the initial stages of the game.
Once the blood is thoroughly dispensed around the room and a violent crime scene is manufactured, complete with signs of immense struggle, the shattered remnants of a mirror shall be placed center stage, representing the need to look within in order to find the right questions to ask and a willingness to confront our own misguided tendencies before we can piece the reflection back together to find the answers we so desperately seek.
Exactly how do you disappear completely in a matter of forty-two days?
Extract your own blood, store it at forty-two degrees fahrenheit and stage a murder-suicide. Or a double murder. Or just an old fashioned murder, whatever makes the most sense in your specific situation. Upon the day of reckoning, remove the blood and dispense it around the room with reckless abandon and of course, this ritual becomes somewhat surreal if done to the right choice of music, so choose your swan song wisely. The real trick of course, is that you must be exceptionally meticulous in your preparations, and adequately conceal your intent (as well as the ongoing trauma on your arms) to everyone you know. Be sure to invest in some long sleeve shirts. It's good to have a solid voice of reason in this instance. You need your very own Robert Lochaven to guide every move as there are a lot of logistics to secure. Once you splatter the crime scene with massive quantities of your own blood, you have to be certain that there is nary a chance to be tracked down. The escape plan is vital. A new identity must be forged. Like a canyon at the mercy of torrential currents, this is an incremental process.
Extract your own blood, store it at forty-two degrees fahrenheit and stage a murder-suicide. Or a double murder. Or just an old fashioned murder, whatever makes the most sense in your specific situation. Upon the day of reckoning, remove the blood and dispense it around the room with reckless abandon and of course, this ritual becomes somewhat surreal if done to the right choice of music, so choose your swan song wisely. The real trick of course, is that you must be exceptionally meticulous in your preparations, and adequately conceal your intent (as well as the ongoing trauma on your arms) to everyone you know. Be sure to invest in some long sleeve shirts. It's good to have a solid voice of reason in this instance. You need your very own Robert Lochaven to guide every move as there are a lot of logistics to secure. Once you splatter the crime scene with massive quantities of your own blood, you have to be certain that there is nary a chance to be tracked down. The escape plan is vital. A new identity must be forged. Like a canyon at the mercy of torrential currents, this is an incremental process.
Passports, untraceable currency, a getaway car and a confounding mystery left behind allowing ample time to vanish into the setting sun, all necessary components for your specific vanishing.
And then the game truly begins.
Racing against the clock is a paramount stage within this ultimate game of hide and seek. Mitch goes his way, I go mine with every intention to never see or hear from each other again. We leave the sticky mess behind and with it, virtually everything else as well. Our self-doubt, unnecessary tendencies to cling to the past, expectations and comfort zones included.
Whomever hides the best shall be deemed the winner. The competitor that gets caught will be presumed the murderer, the other presumed dead, creating quite possibly the only path to real freedom, the burden of being chased removed from the equation. If and when authorities catch up to one of the men in hiding, this man may attempt to come clean and explain the entire process of blood extraction and storage and staging the whole ordeal, but this will most likely sound like the plea of a madman, a fabrication of reality in order to convince the courts of his innocence, quite possibly resulting in an insanity plea. We all have our mental illnesses, but to the man who gets caught there will be an associated monumental illness, and a psych ward shall be the ultimate punishment for failure. There is no coming back from this game.
Perhaps Robert Lochaven is the true victor.
The finishing touches are getting applied to the rebuilt roof atop his new house, just as he requested. When the storms rage on, there will be no penetrating this reinforced structure. He claimed long ago that it was his house and that my occupancy in his stead was temporary. It's safe to say that we finally caught up with the future and this is the crossroads where Robert Lochaven must take the reins.
Time travel at its best.
The past, the present and the future. The id, the super ego and the ego. Coworker Mitch, this blog's author and Robert Lochaven. Three entities competing for the same space, until today that is. Much blood will be spilt. A funeral march will be set to repeat. The mirror will be shattered. All of the unnecessary parts of the psyche cast away, destroyed, creating an improved, emerging reality in order to weather the raging storms that life permeates. Our setting sun has finally reached its horizon line.
Atmospheric refraction at its finest.
Case Study #3 now complete, it's time to bid you farewell. With a mess left behind, a mystery to unravel, and Mitch heading out to locations unknown, I depart. Looking over my shoulder one last time, exiting the empire of self-importance, I notice the fake surveillance camera pointed in my direction, recording nothing. This raises a faint smile as I quietly disappear into the fine mist of this cool and damp Southerly Southland Friday, putting the past squarely behind me.
I am history.
Today's Jazz Hands deploy for you one last time and in the process, shatter the mirror. They leave you in good hands, however. Hands that are well equipped to piece the shards back together. Hands that are well equipped to jazz in new ways, currently unknown. Hands that are well equipped to embrace each and every moment of a future filled with hope and promise.
Today's Jazz Hands wave goodbye.
Today's Jazz Hands wave goodbye.
Day three-hundred and sixty-one complete.
The adventures of "Jazz Hands" will be missed
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