The Twenty-Third Spittle: What Freedom Means to Me
August 5th, 2008
The Red Chariot
It is all too painful.
No need to unravel,
but instead to grab Alexander’s sword, and end it.
The thick applause would be deafening.
Maybe it all started when she asked to help edit a paper I had written my last year of high-school. “WHAT FREEDOM MEANS TO ME,” was the theme.
It was a national writing contest and she seemed more excited and turned on then I could get my head around. I had written about an eagle I had seen caged at the local zoo and why our country needs strength to help those who are helpless.
This country should never be caged as that magnificent one was but should remain free and be the strength that bird symbolizes. I decided that working together at her pad after hours was a bit much and I politely rejected the offer. I refused to enter my paper despite her anger and serious disappointment. She was in the mid-thirty range; blonde, thin with a crackling voice that could probably light dry wood. She was attractive in the way some woman teaching school to young men can be.
As I was dwelling on this my red chariot began to cough. I was on the freeway heading to the west side but the coughing continued in earnest until my foot was to the floor while sputtering very very slowly.
Could I get up the exit ramp and park this damn piece of junk I wondered while totally appreciating this sunny folly.
Is my day ruined?
“Of course it is!” yelped The Maestro just as I made it to the top of the ramp, turned right and fortunately found a spot to park. My destination was maybe six to eight miles from where I stood. It was 90 degrees and very humid but not nearly as hot and humid as I was.
Off I went knowing this was precious time forcing me to relive some of my youth. Walking past bars where I used to hang, past homes where I once knew the people. Across the new bridge which no longer allows you to see through the cracks of the wooden boards while it would swing and sway to any decent wind. I remembered so very much yet it all meant nothing to me. Is this the reality? Yesterday is really nothing at all and tomorrow is always to be, what about the moment? What about the sweat soaked shirt, the pants about to slide off my drenched butt and the profound fact that the bridge happens to be uphill. Give me my studio any day. There is my reality. Give me those quiet moments of joy I wouldn’t trade for all of those yesterdays.
“Let me be,” I laughed to the river below. “Let me just paint,” I demanded to the landscape which was getting bigger with each step. “I respect all of you!” I shouted to it. I doubt I was heard, nor did I really care. It was a tough day and when I finally faced my mother hello she simply said, “Change your shirt, its wet.”
