image from fineartamerica.com
“Life is a shitstorm, in which art is our
only umbrella.”--Mario Vargas Llosa.
Unlike some more tolerant folks, I abhor crowds.
I always have. If you want to be witness to my
stress triggers, put me in a long line, or send me
out Christmas shopping. In crowds I feel like a
white lab rodent in an overcrowded nest. The
transfer of anxiety and angst from one to another
is like feeling a vicious jolt from a cop’s taser.
Yet, that face to face, butt to butt carnival is
actually preferable to me compared to a mile
long dead stop traffic jam. The stresses are
amplified by being completely impersonal,
hidden by bumper to bumper angry scowls,
masked within their mundane cookie-cutter
malicious machines; no exit, no escape, no
wiggle room--all stop and clamped down.
This ill ease, for me, is an urban disease that
no one in its grip is immune to. Some utilize
indifference, malaise, daydreaming or techno-
distractions as their counterpoint, but after
ample exposure, they become leaden-eyed
and android clones. Somehow, my anger has
vaccinated me, leaving me uninfected, and my
poet’s eyes miss nothing.
Pigeons wing over
the throbbing masses, blithely
picking their targets.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub