When Jeremy woke up in that other world, he knew something was a little off, a little different, but did he recognize it as entirely other, entirely elsewhere? Not at all. He thought maybe it was a bar. A new dance he had not yet encountered. A new sense of décor that had not yet made itself appealing. A way of life that he hadn’t yet realized was the way of life of the world he inhabited. He had always been a step behind of the dances, a bar behind of the times, an infatuation behind what brought people joy. So, he assumed from his place on the bench overlooking the scene before him that maybe time had simply transpired in his world. It had been too long since his last excursion for him to notice the changes. He was however light years apart from the place he knew, not just fads apart. He was completely elsewhere. Connected to his home by just the slightest semblance of humanity. Sure, he thought, maybe humans act this way and I have merely failed to notice the steps that brought them here. Physically, you’ll have to admit, they weren’t far off from us. Legs and hair and the looks they gave each other. They could have easily passed for human, especially at human bars. But the things that moved them, the life they had designed for themselves, what made them smile; it wasn’t human at all, not in Jeremy’s understanding. It was completely alien. They littered. That’s what kept him wondering for longer than he should have. Of all species, could there be litterers other than humans? Was there anyone else who could so easily forget what had only seconds ago been in their hands? It seemed unlikely. He realized shortly after that thought that he had never really understood anyone at all, not even when he had really wanted to, not even when he had loved with every part of himself that, to his comprehension, had the capacity to love. But, then, what did understanding matter? Love did not rely on understanding someone else, not really, not in his experience, if he was honest about it. The moment that made him understand that he was entirely somewhere else was not an epiphany, nor a catharsis, nor momentous. It did not inspire the far off sounds of an orchestra, like in the movies. It was a simple sigh, a quiet, “Oh shit,” muttered to himself, as if he had been driving for far longer than he realized and suddenly found himself in a neighborhood that wasn’t his own. The music was what did it. Even if he didn’t at times particularly like Earth’s music, he always, always felt it, or could at least see what others felt in it. There’d be a beat, a line, a melody, just one speck of a moment where his heart would beat along, or an approving smirk would stretch his lips before he could tell his mouth that this was not Music He Listened To. But where he was, the music marked him off as hopelessly, desperately other. He couldn’t feel it at all. Not in his bones or his muscles or his lips. It didn’t reach a single fiber of his being. Every note died at his ears, like sperm in an infertile environment. This world was alien. Habitable, sure. Evidently. But not by him. That much was clear. This was not his world.
My last few nights have ended in daylight. As the world slowly comes to life again, I start getting sleepy. Today, at the park, since all life comes from water, it starts with the sprinklers. Then the bugs come out, dragonflies and Jurassic-looking bumblebees. Birds cross the sky over my head and I instinctively flinch, knowing that I have evaded bird shit for 24 years and that the streak will one day come to an end. Let’s rewind to about thirty minutes earlier. I walk backwards into my car. The rising sun sets again, goes backstage and waits for our cue to come out. I get a little bit less tired. I’m at the top of a parking garage at a local’s hotel in Las Vegas, and the sky is barely bruising itself awake. I’m about to light a cigar to celebrate the day’s end (by my definition, anyway) when a security guard pulls up. He doesn’t actually say anything, but by getting out of the car he asks me what I’m doing so close to the ledge. ” I’m watching the sun rise. “You can’t do that here.” I can’t watch the sun rise? “Nope, we have a policy against loitering. You can’t be here without a purpose.” But I just told you my purpose. I’m watching the sun rise. “Sorry, we can’t discriminate. You’re loitering. I’ve had people throw things. People try to jump off.” Someone should quote Vonnegut to this guy. We are here on Earth to fart around. Humans are just a bunch of loiterers. I’m pretty certain no one’s ever tried to jump off his parking garage. He mostly just farts around. So now I’m driving away from a great viewing spot without a contingency plan, staring at the sunrise through my rear-view mirror. I wander, wondering why there aren’t any signs for this sort of thing. Sunrise viewing area, three miles ahead. The park is not an ideal viewing area. The mountains are too close and there isn’t a clear, unobstructed view of the city. But, it turns out, pretty much any spot is a good spot to watch the sunrise. I sit on a bench, light a cigar, keep a wary eye on the birds. Life continues to evolve. Dogs being walked by jogging owners. Kids hunched over bicycle handlebars, caveman-like. I loiter, sip some coffee, sip some water, change the song. My day ends with a shine.
On almost every recent social outing of mine, I’ve wondered (sometimes out loud), when it was that human beings developed the need and the means to be so loud. Amplifiers are an interesting invention. When did we come up with speakers loud enough to fill a room with so much noise that it completely squashes any audible trace of humanity? When were speakers invented?
One well-informed friend told me that it began with trumpets, or acoustically-designed concert halls, or just glass. Amplification happens naturally. Modern, electrical speakers? Probably in the sixties, he ventured. If so, isn’t it completely fascinating how little time we’ve been blasting our ears with beats? I wonder about the evolutionary effects this will have on us, but more than that, I wonder about the infinitely explorable psychological effects and reasons of such incredibly loud noises. Why do we pack ourselves into rooms so loud that our ears whine in complaint for ours after we’ve left? Why do do we need the air to reverberate so much that it causes us to lean into each others’ necks and scream communication? Why do we?
An additional thought:
We are all pyromaniacs. Of that I have no doubt. We are drawn to the burning sun, the burning sky as the sun sets. The theater of flames consuming wood. The smell of food being cooked. We inhale smoke, keep little papery things burning almost constantly, keep fire in our pockets and at our finger tips and on our lips.
When did smoke machines become a thing? And before them, could human beings ever find themselves in the midst of smoke and not feel threatened?
