Reverberations

~jack

I'm Jack, as in Black, coffee, and a croissant, please…

Well, I've been lurking around this waterhole for a couple of weeks now, new to the game, not wanting the same, shit, over and over again, day after day, showed down my throat on the internet highway. Thought I'd write down a few things, on paper, after having spent quite a few hours here by myself, in the corner, among all the other "invisibles" at The Midnight Pub, reading, drinking coffe, thinking, listening, overhearing, and share my reverberations with you all, post them on the now somewhat cluttered wall, next to the glowing jar of dying bees in the bar.

I love these semi-dark backstreet alleys. These virtual capsules of daily life in which reality often seems more real than "reality" itself. They calm me down. Force me to think twice, before I throw my lucky charm dice…

Soft neon lights, talk radio chatter in the distance, electric cars honking on Main Street, someone crying (softly), someone laughing (out loud), a drunkard walking down Writer's Lane, with pen and paper in one hand, a bottle of Absinthe in the other, a peculiar looking woman on an old rusty bike, possibly a horder, or a seer beyond the Nightfall City border (is she an AI, living by herself in a small creepy cabin at Dusk's End?), a frenchman ranting in French ("Nom de Dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperie de conard d'encule de ta mere" – it's so fucking beautiful, even if it's harsh and quite unintelligible), a Swedish drottning (queen) of sorts, putting it out there, whatever it is, whatever she want's it to be (I love thee', for sure, being a Swede myself, and an Idiomkung of sorts, to your queen, in my own Lost Kingdom of thoughts), a young surfer girl not knowing if she's good enough, knowledgeable enough, to stay, to have her own say among you Tech Mechs (you have, I know you have – not everyone here geeks out on vim or emacs, it's totally fine if you're in a SIM playing around with old Macs), a middle-aged man caught up in his own past (or future, I can't decide which), a dude turning sixty and wondering if this is it, or not (I'm two years behind you, but I can imagine what you're going through), a Gopher sentinel whose fingers tap the keyboard faster than he thinks, an old Unix lady trapped in the mysteries of the new world order, the corporate society where "money beats soul every time", a recovering alcoholic whose pain is felt by everyone (I get you, man, for real, and I admire your candor), a poet who "runs" with his poetry (wish I could do that, the poetry books I've written and published are in grave need of a pair of youthful legs to get them out there in the world), a weatherman waiting for the rain (as it seems), an inquirer that inquires about the inquiries that haven't yet been inquired into (those words are written in stone, man, and I love them all), and finally, me, myself and I, the fly on the wall, the Jack that needs to keep the ball, rolling, for the hell of it, or maybe for a much greater cause - a cause he hasn't yet been able to embrace.

You beautiful people share, you dare to make this fucked-up world a better place, a free (to a certain degree) space in which we all can let our minds flood with creative sweat and blood. I take a bow and say "Thank you, for letting me know that I exist".

That's all for now.

Coffee and croissants all around.

Tonight, the cries and whispers are on me!