Modern Is Now

Through a glut of "conditioned behavior," as the conservatives call it, we realize that the autumn beach offers an escape. That is to say, standing there in wind-whipped flannel, you have a chance to think not about societal pressures, seemingly hard-wired desires, but to escape to the beauty of the natural interface. I stood alone. My sandy metal bucket handle clanked against its side as its base settled down. I was taught that folding your arms is body language for "I'm not listening," but I was listening to the waves and the water on the shore.

A meaty white hand dimly lit (how appropriate) pounded down on the maple bar. The lights were out and a few haphazardly strewn trails of Christmas lights backlit a leather jacket and pair of brothers. Some smoke filtered in and out of view, some beer flushed through the camcorder lens. Hoarsely and repentant I said something neither profound nor comforting. If the constellation of red cans lent any cosmic insight, it hadn't reached my person. Distracted by anything shiny and/or voluptuous, I saw a leather-laced Spaniard disappear into the arched medieval walkway that led to the hexagonal washroom.

If our home proved unwelcoming, our guests would not realize it until they left. So gray rain fell and we opened the door to our golden passageway. I'll diagram the situation now. On the ground floor's exterior, a lifeless fragment of derivative architecture looked back with hostility - an indigenous aspect (at least). Carried away, rolled up, slammed shut, our central corridor boasted an odd combination of crap and a spartan aesthetic. We beamed with pride and paid off a new car in rent.

And this is how it went for awhile.