Sunday Stories: Stolen Moments
We get excited. Things turn hectic. It doesn’t matter whether we join the parade or not. The parade doesn’t need us buying it because it buys us. When 10 out of a 100 are hooked on the hoodlums of hoodoo, us other 90 are drawn in. Not the prettiest of pictures: people with a tic to say “Heck!” cite out of the works of those whose actions do speak louder than words. “Heck!”, they say, their fists pounding on our tables, “Heck!”, their spit flying from their mouths onto their computer screens in ways that make the shit hit us in the face from our computer screens, “Heck yeah!”, they say, “Let them get an education!”
And we, what do we do? We have an education. Too much of an education to say “Heck!” all of the time. If we join the fray, it will just spin harder and draw in more people saying “Heck!” to our “Hey hold on!” When we stay aloof we are arrogant and it will still draw us in. There is no defense because every defense is an offense.
So the only thing we have are stolen moments.
We look at the clock only to realize it is ticking. We tell each other that looking at the clock spoils the moment, spoiling the moment. Things need to get done. If we don’t get them done, they will get us undone. The clock is still ticking even if it is not looked at. Expectations grow big hairy shoulders if we ignore them. When we try to deal with them they show their teeth which stink because of foodstuff that got stuck in between them and was not tended to in time.
We’re screwed so we should just focus on stealing our moments.
But a moment stolen can never be our moment. It is just a rush in which we see the garden as it could be. And us sitting to see it in chairs which are perfect and which were never bought in stores where everybody else was buying chairs to sit in, to see their perfect gardens from. Gardens with big hairy shoulders when buying comfy chairs and gardens full of puddles when we sit down to see them. Puddles that form because the rain does not get drained on account of soil that is too hard and that requires time to be softened. Or money to pay the soil-softeners that advertize with perfect gardens which we’re to imagine ourselves sitting in to see them in a stolen moment which cannot be ours. Money that needs to be earned with time and requires us to keep a close eye on the clock.
There is no escaping so let’s just steal a moment and get it over with.
It takes forever to get over with a moment. A moment to get over with does not compare well to other moments that are imagined and as imagined or timeless. A moment to get over with is restless. “Hell, yeah!”
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