If These Walls Could Talk

IMAGINARY STORY--

I was sitting in my hotel suite/office, staring at the wallpaper. Have you ever done this? I used to do it when I was a kid. I was always perplexed how wallpaper designers could match up the patterns so well. It was mesmerizing.

Being mesmerizing, it's easy to get lost in a reverie. That also happened when I was a kid. My mind would go almost blank very easily. As an adult, it's harder to do it now, to really concentrate, like what you aim for in meditation. I've had various theories as to why that is, mostly involving being old and not a child, being burdened with more responsibilities, having a brain differently developed, etc. But now I suddenly realize, it's because we just don't have as much wallpaper now. We need more wallpaper!

I like a good wall. Who doesn't? Although you never know what's going on behind it. Since I turned to a life of crime, I've been more and more paranoid about walls. Because how am I supposed to know-- the feds, the state police, the local authorities, or just a lone dick, might be back there. I have the place swept everyday with a bug sweeper, but the bug sweeper might be sweeping with the enemy.

And God knows I'm guilty of enough crimes! It'd be an insult if they weren't at least trying to listen in. Right now, sure, all I really am is the head of the Organization's prostitution operations, but that doesn't mean I don't poke my nose into everything else I get a whiff of. I lead the big diamond heist, I tried to corrupt professional wrestling, I killed the Ciggie outside of Tastee Freez, and the kid crapped on the police chief's desk at my instigation. Not a bad month's work!

I stare at the wall. The whole reverie thing kicks in. My eyes cross and I see the pattern of the wallpaper merge, a piece from over there with the identical piece over there. It's playing tricks with my eyes, my mind wanders. I start thinking, "If these walls could talk," as the old saying goes, "what might they be saying?" I might be out on a job and an investigator drops in. I come in and catch him, and I have no idea how long they've been chatting. One of my pictures is crooked, indicating something.

Next thing I know, someone higher up shows up with a warrant, and I'm very twitchy, looking guilty as hell, but really more afraid of what the wall might say. "I was standing right here when Machine Gun Ricky Wayward was blackmailing Rutledge!" The thought's crazy, but in my reverie I'm thinking, "I'll kill you, and I'll kill this entire room if you open your damned mouth!" Finally, they do get me, but there's no witnesses, at least none in the flesh. And yet, the prosecutor brings in a surprise witness, a chunk of my wall, swearing to tell the whole truth. The whole truth! That'd sink me!

I realize what I must do. I must get construction workers in here and take out that damned wall and put in a new one, one that's soundproof. When that's done, only then can I plot and plan and do whatever the hell I want, and nobody will be the wiser.

And -- I'll be able to idle away the hours with my guitar and harmonica, knowing no one can hear me. Because I'm so bad it's embarrassing.

RICKY'S FINAL WORD: I'm really glad the foregoing -- what you read, and will probably re-read -- is an imaginary story. It would be an obvious bastard, not just to me but the entire world, if our walls could actually talk. I really didn't want to get into my own sex life, but other than my crimes, of course that's the first thing I think of. And if the walls could talk! Whoa, Nelly, bar the gate! They'd be describing things best left even out of the imagination. A mental group grope, perhaps, I'm not saying what all it'd be, except it wouldn't be a description I'd be proud of. Struttin' my stuff, such as it is.

Closing Out September

I'm closing out September with a few trifles. 30 days hath September, and today's the day it hath them!

I spent most of September on other projects -- note to self -- hence my lack of posts here.

It was actually one project, involving photography, and it's amazing how consuming it was for me. But it had a definite lifespan. I can't say I didn't see it coming, because I felt it coming as sure as anything.

Most things that I become extremely interested in like that have a lifespan. The arc is natural enough, starting with my first discovery, my first steps, a few tentative moves, then I become more interested. Soon I'm an old hand, showing what I have, in this case thinking I have a real eye for it, and I believe I do. Now I'm evaluating it, but only periodically, thinking occasionally of the vanity, yet persisting in ever new variations of participation. Midway through, I'm really able to produce, like the long distance runner. There's still enough avenues to run down, so I'm thinking I'm doing something useful, but the nagging in my mind is getting louder all the time: Why? I keep going, I double down on my efforts, I set goals and meet them, and soon I'm such an old hand it's like I've been doing it forever. I'm established, I'm even respected. But I start seeing the arc as an arc indeed and know that I'm getting toward the end. I make a resolution: I'll just be this interested in it, self limiting. Except I know that will never work. Because when I've pierced through to the full realization of the vanity -- knowing its true worthlessness -- I start casting about for something tried and true, something that does have value to me.

That is a funny paragraph, and every word is true!

The good news about a life pursuit like this is that I didn't make a large investment in it. I didn't make any commitments. There's nothing I have to be ashamed of. No one got hurt. And it was even kind of fun, while also serving as a cautionary tale to me about whatever my next consuming interest is, to look for the arc early on.