It’s not what you want to hear. It really isn’t. Groups are created of dissimilar individuals called same. And that what you hear all the time probably is just a guess.
Though, that guess is treated as fact, as religion.
Still we are all unique.
People move and march on belief and theologies, armies are conceived at the thought, even without video footage. A whole world is shaken in its wake.
And another door is opened as a door somewheres else is shut.
A man sees a door which is in the middle of a busy street. It’s ordinary, it’s plain, it’s uncannily placed.
He walks up to this door and enters.
Before he turns the knob he notes the traffic coming–completely normal, feels the breeze; the sun warms him at noon in front of strollers and dogs and pedestrians making way, and he knows.
He pulls the knob and steps through the threshold.
What we hear and what we see may not be as certain as the newspapers and broadcast headlines read, MPR News maybe switching articles for ads. It may be the focus that is askew; angled by who points the lens and who fills their pockets.
Sure, some things are apparent, yet other things are covered.
Humans commit violence towards humans; males commit violence towards males, females commit violence towards females; James “Jim” Harrison outlined this some years ago in “Wolf”, a semi-autobiographical novel of the author’s early life and chasing a glimpse of some wolf, yet we forget.
Hitchens wrote about how being “Politically Correct” kills the language, makes a euphemism out of real talk, in For The Sake Of Argument in 1991. No one cares.
Always we are soft, our flesh.
Gasps and screams, a man lie in the street. Motionless. He gestures before being struck by a car. Thrown in the air, twisted meat.
He is a new chalk outline about to happen, leaking. Indiscriminate however. People die. Unfortunate, save for we hope he wanted this, sort of, oddly. Couldn’t live the way it was.
Someone’s perspective changes. Self Spectacle. A man opening a door becoming the ground below, and then ash; theatre to others.
It’s not what you want to hear. Someone is no longer there. Someone is gone. Though does it matter what they were?
Maybe he was this and that; maybe he died of natural causes “in relation to [their/his] line of work” -Cormac McCarthy. “Everything happens for a reason.”-Mom. Certain things matter more than most. Other certain things don’t matter to the person in question, and what do you think? Don’t you see it differently too?
A man opens a door and moves on, goes somewheres else. And ambulance sirens blare. Women hold hands up to their faces. God. Onlookers reach into their pockets and grab their smartphones, dumbly.
The new Spectacle. How many pictures can you take; how long will it be to upload that video to YouTube? What kind of story will grace City Pages cover the next week? Goals, dreams?
He’s probably somewheres else, somewheres where it doesn’t matter.
He thought, which door?