mind games

it's been almost two weeks since the axe came down, and i was "invited" to join the 633,000 others that lost their jobs last month. in that time, it's taken a while to assess where my feet come in contact to the earth. since i had to prematurely leave college in a past recession ('75), "work" has always been a part of what i am. until now.

imperceptibly, incrementally comes the readjustment from being a Child Of The Night. i awake earlier, i absorb more sunshine (when it grants itself in this murky April). i sense the fraying of that invisible umbilical cord, the one that tied me to a second life, and lifestyle... with its disconnection.

good riddance to all that.

the day after my career breathed its last, i stayed in northern Virginia, as there was going to be a get-together of similarly suspended souls (in an uncomfortably stuffy bar in the middle of Stepford). ever the eternal smartass, my last quote on the company intercom before leaving was "Elvis... has left... The Building". i doubt if anyone "got" it.

they probably didn't "get" why i was dressed to kill at that bar, either: retro jacket-tuxedo shirt-pleated wool trousers.
when asked why i was so "dressed up", i had to reply, "Hey, it's my funeral!"

best to leave 'em laughing, eh?

so, now, i retreat to the source. in "forced semi-retirement", until i get the path figured out. already, i feel more connected to this place than i have in years, though i know that this, too, is probably a temporary interlude. digging in the dirt to make a garden. getting my hands greasy in every Briggs & Stratton engine known to man. clearing away years of tangle and neglect at the home place, in case i have to make my last stand there. throwing out the unnecessary if i have to bolt for the exit, quickly.

interestingly, though i see many more faces in the course of the day, those i see the most are of the street people (though they all live in a renovated hotel, to someone's benevolence). The Guy Who Looks Just Like Saddam (and, who always waves when recognized). The Man In Black (though, that means the dude who wears black t-shirts and shorts, no matter what the weather is). and, The Material "Girl" (though facially appearing to have native American and mountain man heritage, prances with a long blonde wig and leather jacket on the way to 7-11, like he's in the chorus line in Chicago). they're harmless. they do what they do, because they must. they're comfortable in the skin that they were granted. people have been made "famous" for much, much less in more favorable locations and circumstances.

there's a lesson in that concept.

early this morning, i read a succint observation by Bob Dylan, in an interview in today's London Times:

"It must be the Southern air. It’s filled with rambling ghosts and disturbed spirits. They’re all screaming and forlorning. It’s like they are caught in some weird web - some purgatory between heaven and hell and they can’t rest. They can’t live, and they can’t die. It’s like they were cut off in their prime, wanting to tell somebody something. It’s all over the place. There are war fields everywhere … a lot of times even in people’s backyards."
 
that describes this little Virginia town and its inhabitants to a "T".

i hope that in the time it takes to make the next step away from here, i can lay some to rest.