Chained to a temporary abode & waiting
In my temporary residence, there are three bedrooms.
In one, I have a chair, a footstool, a liquor cabinet which also serves as a storage unit for coins and assorted rifle and handgun ammunition, a couple of end tables and a rather large television. I usually sit in this room while I eat, watching television, mostly the news. Sunday afternoon, I watched an entire baseball game. It was the first time I have been in the room for more than about thirty consecutive minutes since I rented the townhouse way back on May 14.
In the other bedroom, I have two tables, each with a computer, a television usually tuned in on a cable news channel, and a futon cushion spread out on the floor. It is my bed. This is a "bachelor pad," remember? And, a place to stay for a man who often has proclaimed he can sleep anywhere, even on rocks, at anytime. And, a home for a man who currently is a very inactive one in terms of guests. I am not in the mood for guests (for rocks, either, for that matter), but comfort is not requisite. I only want to get my affairs in order so I am ready to depart for "whateverland" at the end of August.
The third bedroom and the living room, plus the downstairs bathroom and laundry room, are my designated "dispersal centers" -- the places where packing and re-packing and stacking boxes in preparation for storage takes place.
Of my former furniture, only seven bookcases, a few tables and a few chairs remain. Two vehicles still reside in the garage, the Chevrolet Suburban which I purchased on May 4 and the Audi which I have had for a few years and which soon will belong to another. Since my return to America in the final minutes of April 9, I have disposed of three handguns, two rifles and one shotgun, but purchased two additional rifles. To me, this is funny. Buying, selling and trading firearms is the consistent inconsistency of my life.
In the bedroom that now serves as my television room, one of the former residents had attached an automobile bumper sticker to the wall which reads: "Life is Good." Considering the fact that the two occupants were a pair of university students who quite literally fled town after passing bad checks and committing a few other indiscretions, I am not certain of the logic behind the bumper sticker. They even had removed the house numbers from the townhouse in an attempt to confuse anyone who might be "looking" for them.
Life might be good, I suppose, but it could be better for me. I do not like living alone or being alone. I do not want to eat in a restaurant alone, or go to a film, or to an auction, or for a walk or do most things alone -- except, maybe, to canoe alone at times, especially on stormy days, or to enter the woodlands by myself on occasion. Which is not to say I do not like having a certain amount of time to myself -- preferably at night while others are sleeping -- and, I think everyone needs private space and time to be alone when they wish to have it.
Evidently, I am not the first man who does not like to live alone: "And the Lord God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him." This is from Genesis 2:18, in case you are interested.
Yes, yes. Whatever ....
I am uncertain if anyone understood the primary point (or even read the post, for that matter) that I was making in my commentary two days ago under the title of "When ice meets fire." I was trying to express a dilemma, without being blatant about it, regarding love. Why bother with it? Why worry about it? Why even think about it? Life would be made considerably more simple by following the path of Tannhauser.
Another philosophical question: Does it matter if love is a sacred love or if it is a profane love as long as it is real and exists in some form? Is "life good" under either circumstance? Or, even good with the total absence of love?
Meanwhile, here I am in self-imposed chains waiting for the end of summer. What is life if it is not waiting, for something or for someone? Life is good, I suppose, but sometimes I wonder and, for sure, it usually could be better.
All right .... life goes on, whether we are in the center of it or on the sidelines .... back to the packing and the re-packing, packing and re-packing, packing and re-packing ....
But, first, the music
It is not the norm for me to comment about my music selections, but I do want to mention the video of Elvis Presley singing "Unchained Melody" in South Dakota only a few weeks before his death in 1977.
I never cared at all for music by or from Elvis, but to watch this video is to watch a man who knew who he was, what he was and where he was going. This, in a sense, makes him admirable during his final months of life. His performance is pure pathos, painful to watch. He was only 42-years-old, and his life was done. I think even he has tears in his eyes by the end of the song.
Then, to compare his performance to that of the same song sung by Kristy Lee Cook, who is young, has a beautifully powerful voice and is singing for tomorrow rather than for yesterday, the dichotomy of our mortal existence is very evident.
My thought is, "The King is dead; long live the King." In terms of American music and culture, Presley really was something special, like his music or not.
Some lines from "The Prisoner of Chillon"
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
The other was as pure of mind,
But form'd to combat with his kind;
Strong in frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perish'd in the foremost rank
With joy: - but not in chains to pine:
His spirit wither'd with their clank,
I saw it silently decline -
And so perchance in sooth did mine:
But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.
He was a hunter of the hills,
Had follow'd there the deer and wolf;
To him this dungeon was a gulf,
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills.