In the Time of Chimpanzees

I was talking with a friend about Midwestern greetings customs, the ways in which public exchanges occur, the commonality and repeatability of the phrases uttered, facial expressions displayed, and gestures performed between strangers over generations as a social lubricant to ease the friction of intersection, not quite an interaction, more of a passing by in close proximity with a short phrase acting as a blinker on a car does, letting the other know "I'm doing this immediately and then you can anticipate from there." 

The other responds with spatial deference to the other's movement so as not to physically collide, usually with a smile to let the other know that "It's okay that you asserted your dominance over that space by occupying it instead of allowing me to do so before you." Then perhaps a spoken phrase, "After you," to let the other know that he's offering something the other was clearly taking anyway but, again, adding lubricant to make the penetration more tolerable with an appearance of pleasance. 

But "After you," depending on the inflection, can also mean, "I'm letting you do this, but I'm speaking so you'll know I'm here and in a tone that you'll understand as 'do this again, and I may not be so tolerant.'" That means something more in a smaller city, a town, a place where people see each other regularly at restaurants, grocery stores, schools, workplaces, in the neighborhood, etc. People are not anonymous and don't expect to be considered invisible. 

This expectation of a certain type of discourse, though, prevents other possibilities from occurring. While on the surface it is more open than the ignoring of one another in public spaces in urban environments and to a lesser degree in suburban environments, the smaller town expectation of momentary or minutes-long acknowledgment of the other's existence through the idle question of "How about this weather?" can be felt as an imposition on the focus of one's attention in relation to the demand for a response about the weather. 

In such a situation, I've often wondered what would happen if I said, "My answer in this context is of no more importance than speculation on the peculiar shape of an imaginary pebble's existence on any given beach in Australia. I implore you, ask me no more and allow me to continue my existence without any more consideration from you or of you." 

But I don't do that because it seems just as reasonable to say, "About this weather, I could say that it is cold or it is hot. I would say neither, though. I would also not say it is raining, snowing, or hailing nor that there is a tornado, wildfire, or flood. If the sky could be said to be blue, it could also be said to be partially white. There may be no end to what could be said about how this weather is, but by the time I really get into it, the weather will have likely changed."

Maybe I could print up copies of that and give them to others when they ask such questions. Maybe I'll just make an app for small talk. It's not like anything authentic would be being replaced by using an app that voices "How are you?" and allowing the other person to either answer themselves or let their smart phone Small Talk app respond. Small Talk? Small? Talk? SMALT? SMALK? SMAK? 

Hmm. smak. It's four letters, one syllable, short for small talk but easily read as talking smack, the brand/logo is easily seen and read in its entirety on a display of apps. There's no need for reading an underlying caption beneath an app image because the word within a 2D box of one color as the brand image serves as its own caption. It steals back focus from an underlying caption by making the caption redundant. And perhaps provides a cheap laugh. 

I foresee four people sitting at a dining table enjoying wine and a meal while each of their four smart phones converse with one another through the SMAK app. Different settings: generic and impersonal questions and answers, trivia, weather, current events, politics, movies, and so on. Different identities ... nah, lawsuits. But, hey, who says you can't hack the app if it doesn't yet exist, right? 

Havoc. Chaos. Deviancy. Vulgarity. Obscenity. Ferocity. 

I am the most courageous coward he's ever met. I've got alcohol on my hands as I hand my plan to ditch myself to a guy who wants to get someone else on the outside. There's nothing like dancing women throwing plates, decapitating their laughing dates, as an appetizer for insurrection.

"Sir, are you calling for an invasion?"

I saw swirling chickens caught in flight, out of focus and much too bright, seen only through one eye, the left one, the right one to see through, that left one, is right be me, be it my right to say or I'd have left long ago, having come down with shiny teeth as game show suckers try to breathe the wealth of television prizes into their lives while pretending the canned laughter is laughing with them rather than at them.

But I got a drug and a bug, something better than love. Do you like me now? "Oh, yeah, I think you're pretty good." Going on, feeling strong.

I quit my job blowing leaves, telephone bills up my sleeves, choking on an old man's dusty bone, blasting freedom rock with my bass, streamlining slimeballs talking in code. We went down, long after dark, lit up the shack, grabbed a beer out of a sack, watched the place burn to the ground, the screams of those alive like a symphony of hell's angels calling souls to the devil. 

Everybody was bent over twice, painting the walls with loaded dice, leaping up into the air, getting juiced up beyond belief, they were singin' like this: Winos throwing frisbees at the sun, burnt my soul between the bun, now I'm wounded, now I'm done, running like an antelope, fast and free; scraping off the attitude, old man eating all my food, don't be kind, don't be rude, just shaking my boots, letting it all hang loose as the fluffy clouds and lovely rainbows become a sad, soft, and snuggly place as unhappy as an upside-down watermark for a fifty lying in the sun, burning or won, kind of wounded, rudely drunk, running like an antelope out of control.

Scraping off the attitude or watching an old man eat my food. He thinks I'm kind, I'm actually rude. He took his boots off, his hair got loose, and he made an oof. "You be kind, I'll be rude. Just shake off your boots and let your hair get loose." No, take me down to the depot, put me down on a bus, never stop me again.

Scraping off that attitude, off the old man's boots, he thinks I'm kind, I'm kind of rude, my hair's getting loose in places, too. You speak with a twang and wish that I wasn't, walking barefoot and bowlegged on a Wednesday that wasn't, and wishing for a fluffy cloud over a rainbow of sadness, a soft and snuggly dream-warm gladness, but you have a scowl for a soul, a bun for the young, and a wounded moose in heaven. 

Time to call it in. It's tomorrow already.