Super Freaky Silence Before The Brave New World

Just an hour ago, I was pulling out of the casino where I successfully made $23 dollars last for two full hours.  At the exit, I’m twisting off, with precision, the muffin top that came in my Hampton Inn “lunch bag.”  You can pick one up at the reception desk, on the way out, each morning.  It’s a nice way to give business wo(men) munchies. But there's not much lunch, it's more like brunch. 

I never eat the whole muffin.  The goodies are free, so I tear off the part I want, pop it in my mouth and toss the bottom out the window for the wolves and vermin who trek the side of the highway.  I’m kind of (calorie conscious and) altruistic that way. 

“That girl’s a super freak, super freak; she’s super freeeeeekeeyy- yaaaaoww!” I’m grooving at the gas pump, filling-up for my trek home tomorrow. A girl cruising by on a bike waves and says, “Hey!” or “Dance Fever” or something with a big fist bump in the night air.  I salute with a fist bump back at her and swing my hips toward the pump.

Heading west, I’m swishing side to side to the music. I like the power of this Chevy rental.  Wow! I never get this free upgrade, but the guys at Enterprise hooked me up this go ‘round.  Life is good even though (or maybe because) I’m alone. 

“Three days until our anniversary of the end,” I think about this time last year and realize—it will be the end of the world, 12-21-12.  

“In three days, everyone will wake and wonder if the clocks will work, if the money will still be in their savings account, or if the Mayas will rise from the dead and eat out our hearts.” 

I look up for my exit and hit the signal, “Maybe.”
But it won’t be my end of the world. That happened last year.
“And, I’m a full year away and further down my solitary path.” 

The realization that I’m almost to the anniversary date of receiving the email—“You must realize by now that I have feelings for [Olive Oil]”—causes me to look back at how far I’ve come. I shudder with the power of freedom. Tonight, I’m twisting off muffin tops and dancing to “she’s a super freak.”  

I'm not thinking about the end of the world when I enter the lobby of my on-the-road home. But, I look at the tv and see a media photo of one of the funerals.  Next, a photo of the six year old that the parents, community, and the nation buried today.  “It’s overwhelming.  It’s everywhere. I hope I never forget.”

But, I will forget the sharp points of this sadness  I’ve never been to Connecticut. I don’t have relatives or friends there. I don’t have children of my own.  Still—I am here, witnessing this tragedy and feeling pain that has no place to sit and be.  “It’s not my tragedy—except that I’m human, and I share some whack’d portion of it.” 

People seem to be reflective this week. The pace is slower and the cars are more patient when buyers should be bustling for Christmas bounty. We wait for an explanation from the press or the president.  If one comes, it won’t matter; it won’t make sense.  But compassion in any form makes the world better in small ways and in big ways and in any ways that can fit between.  The press reported Samaritans who were offering hugs to strangers, sleeping bags to the homeless, and Tweets that offered reliefs and gifts to various people around the nation.

As long as the radio stations can keep playing songs that make people move, as long as strangers keep offering anonymous fist bumps in the air, as long as the earth keeps cooling and heating and cooling and heating, and as long as human hearts share peace, love and tenderness with all kinds of super freaks, we can make it through the end of the world and onto the new path together.