Don't Think, Just Be
Something has been different lately. I've been in these places and seen these faces, ghosts that they are, before, but never like this. I've looked in the mirror before, but never like this.
Everything moves in slow motion, and I, detached, observe and shrivel? To a soundtrack of minor chords and primal fury and screaming on hilltops when everyone else is gone.
I don't think I ever wanted any of this. I don't know what I want. I want to be it all to be ok, but I don't know how. I don't think it's been ok in a long time. Why? Why?
Just breathe, Binczyk.
Just breathe.
-scene-
(Shadowmen)
Hell's Kitchen, New York City, 1976. A bar. The sort of place that the everyman living in the everyslum of the city goes to after his everyjob, so that he can watch himself and the world he knows bubble and foam through amber lenses. The paint on the walls is peeling, dim light filters through the smog of pollutants that a heavyset man rhythmically and regularly exhales from atop the support of his barstool. He is in need of a shave and well past the prime of his life. The barstool groans. The bartender refills his glass, yawning. He has run this place for 5 years. He is single, although he had owned a dog for some time. Yawning once more, he leans against the bar and reads the headlines scrolling past him on the silent tv. It is almost midnight. Almost closing time. The bar only closes when the bartender falls asleep. It is quiet. In the corner, faces buried by the shadows of the dim lighting, a pair of old-timers are having a calm back and forth on a topic meaningless to him. There is a ratlike man with darting eyes sitting at the bar, listening listlessly to the two in the corner. He needs white noise. They are 5, all counted, none foreign to the others.
Outside, it is raining.
The the ancient hinges propping up the door suffer to turn, but relent, and, with sounds of an dying animal, turn. The figure that enters is fresh, crisp, tall. Raindrops roll off of him as though out of respect for his stature. A silhouette against the lamps burning outside, he approaches the bar with a slow, measured, deliberate pace.
He does not close the door.
The light from the bar slowly travels up his form. It remains black. Black shoes, polished. Black slacks, suspended by a black belt. Black shirt, weatherbeaten. Black blazer, worn open. The light reaches his face and moves across its pits and scars like dawn over no man's land. shadows form, flicker, and die in its crevices. His face has seen life. His eyes have taken it. They perch like shadows above his sharp cheekbones, sunken into his skull. He leans against the bar, and grins the satisfied grin of a man who understands who he is and what he is. What he is to do. The bartender leans back and gazes into those eyes. They are not foreign to him either. He thinks back to a time when he wore a similar pair, and nods at the man. The nod carries in it the full weight of their combined understanding.
The shadowman stops grinning. Yes, he too understands. His face transfixes to a look of dignified calm. The expression is quickly echoed by the bartender. The man reaches into the side of his blazer, not taking his eyes off of the bartender for a moment, eyes stone still but screaming with life, hungry at the thought of fresh sacrifice, consuming the room and the world in which they are positioned. The man produces a revolver. It is archaic and intricately etched.
The bartender, his expression unchanging, his eyes never leaving those of the living shadow, reaches under the counter and produces a similar pistol. Similar, but unique. Artworks, both, created with a unified purpose. He hands it to the shadowman and nods again. The shadowman, holsters the pistol, cocking his own, and returns the gesture. Silence. A gunshot.
The bartender lies bleeding on behind the counter. His face has ceased to exist. Silence. The old-timers have stopped speaking, the heavyset man holds his cigarette, and ratface has turned around. The man recedes into the darkness, twilight moving across his face. He exists, a silhouette. There is darkness. The bar is closed now, its patrons leave.
-end scene-
I should be doing work now, schoolwork.
Just breathe, Binczyk.
Just breathe.
Everything moves in slow motion, and I, detached, observe and shrivel? To a soundtrack of minor chords and primal fury and screaming on hilltops when everyone else is gone.
I don't think I ever wanted any of this. I don't know what I want. I want to be it all to be ok, but I don't know how. I don't think it's been ok in a long time. Why? Why?
Just breathe, Binczyk.
Just breathe.
-scene-
(Shadowmen)
Hell's Kitchen, New York City, 1976. A bar. The sort of place that the everyman living in the everyslum of the city goes to after his everyjob, so that he can watch himself and the world he knows bubble and foam through amber lenses. The paint on the walls is peeling, dim light filters through the smog of pollutants that a heavyset man rhythmically and regularly exhales from atop the support of his barstool. He is in need of a shave and well past the prime of his life. The barstool groans. The bartender refills his glass, yawning. He has run this place for 5 years. He is single, although he had owned a dog for some time. Yawning once more, he leans against the bar and reads the headlines scrolling past him on the silent tv. It is almost midnight. Almost closing time. The bar only closes when the bartender falls asleep. It is quiet. In the corner, faces buried by the shadows of the dim lighting, a pair of old-timers are having a calm back and forth on a topic meaningless to him. There is a ratlike man with darting eyes sitting at the bar, listening listlessly to the two in the corner. He needs white noise. They are 5, all counted, none foreign to the others.
Outside, it is raining.
The the ancient hinges propping up the door suffer to turn, but relent, and, with sounds of an dying animal, turn. The figure that enters is fresh, crisp, tall. Raindrops roll off of him as though out of respect for his stature. A silhouette against the lamps burning outside, he approaches the bar with a slow, measured, deliberate pace.
He does not close the door.
The light from the bar slowly travels up his form. It remains black. Black shoes, polished. Black slacks, suspended by a black belt. Black shirt, weatherbeaten. Black blazer, worn open. The light reaches his face and moves across its pits and scars like dawn over no man's land. shadows form, flicker, and die in its crevices. His face has seen life. His eyes have taken it. They perch like shadows above his sharp cheekbones, sunken into his skull. He leans against the bar, and grins the satisfied grin of a man who understands who he is and what he is. What he is to do. The bartender leans back and gazes into those eyes. They are not foreign to him either. He thinks back to a time when he wore a similar pair, and nods at the man. The nod carries in it the full weight of their combined understanding.
The shadowman stops grinning. Yes, he too understands. His face transfixes to a look of dignified calm. The expression is quickly echoed by the bartender. The man reaches into the side of his blazer, not taking his eyes off of the bartender for a moment, eyes stone still but screaming with life, hungry at the thought of fresh sacrifice, consuming the room and the world in which they are positioned. The man produces a revolver. It is archaic and intricately etched.
The bartender, his expression unchanging, his eyes never leaving those of the living shadow, reaches under the counter and produces a similar pistol. Similar, but unique. Artworks, both, created with a unified purpose. He hands it to the shadowman and nods again. The shadowman, holsters the pistol, cocking his own, and returns the gesture. Silence. A gunshot.
The bartender lies bleeding on behind the counter. His face has ceased to exist. Silence. The old-timers have stopped speaking, the heavyset man holds his cigarette, and ratface has turned around. The man recedes into the darkness, twilight moving across his face. He exists, a silhouette. There is darkness. The bar is closed now, its patrons leave.
-end scene-
I should be doing work now, schoolwork.
Just breathe, Binczyk.
Just breathe.