theater of the underclass

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The Portal

It seems the show has come to an end. The lights go down and the audience clears the theater.

But the author remains seated in the darkened room. He wants more, but since he has written no scenes, there is nothing.

He is preoccupied with the old ‘vicissitudes of life.’ His portal only containing the old dreams of the past. Yet he will not switch it off, since at one time, it was a dream come true.

His micro-battle has been lost, but the scratches of light, poetry, and images, continued the ‘art tripping’ that started long ago.

Those pesky vicissitudes have also long plagued him, like the need to create. Why else would he live in his humble garret for eight years, in a town which had no place for him?

He didn’t have to move, unlike the earlier more adventurous years. So he stayed. When the light of his portal went dim last November, he knew he had to relocate to a big city in order to have any chance of making a living

Here’s the preoccupation: making the move.

It’s the same as it was when he tried to returned to his country ten years earlier. He only intended to stay abroad for a year. But it turned into seven. Getting back is harder than going.

The last couple of years abroad he couldn’t save money to go back to his country and have a place to live, even though that was the reason he went there.

Finally an opportunity came for a plane ticket home and a hotel room for two weeks. Through the blessing of friendship he found his way to his tower. Two and a half years later he had to leave the Magic Kingdom in Westchester. He wasn’t that young, but went West.

He landed in what he now calls Jerkwater. He has a bad attitude and can’t really be bothered with more than teaching and finding work. Politics and Jihad will have to carry on without his comment.

His fondest memory of the last eight years was the opening of the portal. With it dimming, he lost his steady job. Now each month is a race he can’t win. God or The Liberals would have no mercy on his soul.

Even the Great Obama can’t help him, because he did not help in the Transformation, but felt it wrong. The portal told the whole story.

It’s now Fear and Loathing and Leaving Las Jerkwater. Diving into a new world where tourists throw-up in the streets: sick because of drunkenness or having lost all their doe.

He never cared for the place but had to hope that he could earn enough for a studio apartment and possibly more. And one day scratch again on the portal, all he felt and knew, in a way not seen on TV.

And that’s the show. It’s all he could come up with to keep the pilot-light burning for WordPress.

If you are there in the desert where Frank and Sammy used to sing and smoke, you won’t meet him at the casino, unless he’s performing. Now days they don’t have live performers and bands, but as we enter the End Times, he hopes there will be a short Renaissance. People will want more stirring of the soul.

Even as he writes this closing scene he wonders how to manage a move. He can only pray to God and The Liberals to see his worth, and save him.

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