a day in the life of time

Jamie takes a bow. The crowd is gob smacked, he gracefully accepts the flurry of self imagined dashness & mumbles something resembling a speech – he’s not sure. Declaring to all sundry that nowhere does there exist, a nutcase that even comes close to him. Jamo identified himself as no-one else – he sees a mere blur, his wit just too quick, so sure, all the while realizing nothing is ever as it seems, so makes a mental note to call for an appointment with a psychiatrist as soon as possible. Not before successfully strapping himself into his beige straight-jacket stitched with Kevlar thread, safe in the knowledge that 9 out of 10 people surveyed that qualify as regular users of this and similar garments, cannot even spell Kevlar, or hippopotamus.

He does up the last buckle on his Psycho-Poncho, while almost buckling under the pressures of trying to fit in to society by wearing it out to pool parties, wearing stylish accessories “made to match” (beige canvas).The ensemble affectionately referred to as a “functional yet savvy Phobia Pullover” He leaves of course without locking the door on the way to the pool. He wonders what a swim-wear range of “Binding – Bikini’s” for the ladies or “Tie Up – Trunks” for the lads would be like, an addition to the work-wear for nutcases market, valued at approximately 1 billion dollars a year if you travel 500 years into the future.

Never had he dreamt of the notoriety, or going down in history as the most verbose, award winning shittalker that graced the earth in a Kevlar costume. He sits again for a moment, and announces that if the shoe fits, and is neither a sandal nor “Queer eye for the straightjacket guy” yellow… wear it. Jamie bows his head again, but this time in shame, he’s wearing yellow socks. Meanwhile the positive side raises its head, knowing he has all the time in the world to practice the time honoured skill of being able to rub one out using no hands and wearing his “Claustro Cardigan” or “cardy” for short, in stores Jan 29th 2047. He thinks to himself – “that ad is heaps old”, glad I own one already.

This signals the foreseen demise of humanity, noting it has succumbed and turned on itself. Not 1 but 2 fashion militias enforce the “can’t rub one out with no hands means no hands” rule, their weapons of choice being the mocha latté or mini-mocha chino, no sugar. Scared he’ll shit himself, he does nothing, just brags that he can, and that they would have to take off the cardigan if they want proof of signature dishes such as the Mac n Cheese. Barely a single person knows what he means, nor are they even there, those who are, cannot work out why nobody can hear their screams when they just sit there not screaming. Dreams of people born with flesh tone cardigans of their very own abound, an end for worrying mums the world over. No? Yes? No. As for evolution catering to the whims of fashion? Enough said. Darwin would be turning in his grave if he wasn’t so dead and brittle and limbless or that he was in fact cremated and his remains lay in an urn with nowhere near the room needed to turn about, thus pleading that it “could happen” being futile.

Urn thefts soon took over from the rampant coffin thieving, once word was out, that urns were smaller and easier to “rock” than a whole coffin, and were less gross and smelly when showing them to potential shittalker ebayers. Ebayers knew the potential value of such urns, especially 50 yrs from then (2097) and more so if you “still had your cardigan on”.

“Making a statement” about the past, which is the future, but would be the present, of those who sacrificed 50 yrs of the next million or so still to go, by simply living out the 50 years as normal, is the next logical thing to do - make it a quick visit, add a fashion faux pas, blab something to take the attention away from the vivid dreamlike state, then vanish into a cloud of smoke leaving the mouth of babes. The secret out, the value of those urns, in 50 yrs…. people smoke it, the news! the fanfare! The humility of not knowing earlier! Damn! Once you’ve gone black you never go back, what if once you’ve gone ash you never lose dash? He ponders and realizes that in 50 years he’s already been dead for 5 years, “sure, roll your own, but….smoke your own? It’s worth a try, all those years time traveling and doing “no handed pewter polishes” mean nothing if you don’t get your own urn. Soon others will start to practice wearing the jackets; “a trend set, just get that urn!” He stops talking to himself momentarily, weary in the thoughts that he likes this idea, and comfortable of the images of urn searches on Google returning 215 810 000 results.

It was all too much, the easiest way out being denial, living in hope that time travel stays a distant forethought until you’ve got that urn. Turning left, popping down to the worker and using the shortcut via the inner sanctum namely “Karen’s” open 7 days. Telling the Mauve guys you lost your mind, they of course asked if you “find theirs to hang onto it for em” You said ok, stroked, stroked the vinegar stroke, and chucked a hearty when you looked up and it was your Nan, your wife, your mentor or The pumpkin eater giving your happy ending. You survived but chucked another when they said they worked for free. It wasn’t a special touch with nans’ delicious sandwiches was it? Or was it? Nooooooooooo!. You looked in your wallet and your last name was Snow, was still 2047 and you were scratching your head while your membership is passed in the wind, and your body to the floor. All those sandwiches, sure was a lot of them. Peeling the spuds for tea you thought she said. Hand made Gnocchi. And you loved it. Little balls of meat wrapped in lovingly made mashed potato. Delicious you said. He started to spin…vomiting, what’s next? Stormy his long lost father? Or would you find out all the brothels in Adelaide have been accepting Coles, Bilo, Dick Smith and Woollies vouchers for full sex since august 2004, and that nobody said a word?....Best not to think about it he realized, because it would all go pear shaped if he cast his mind too far back, to the night stormy said she would do you herself “coz it was so busy”.

You asked her if it was a Chernobyl vagina, she looked confused and said it was a memento from the “cricket one daya” that needed temperature control/humid conditions, and looked like a cricket bail signed by the whole spectator crowd in puffy paint, what lies she told! Dad how could you?! Jamie doesn’t live here anymore, ask him, he’ll say its been a long time between drinks, cause he only ordered one, no-one else notices so he shaves 15 seconds off his personal best time for losing the plot, then they noticed, so he calmly helped them lose it too, on their behalf. Made many new friends, not one bought him a drink, he said no thanks, and worked out that it was in fact a huge time between drinks, because hot bar girls come & go, but the time between drinks is a constant. Stormy said “Einstein didn’t even drink beer”, how he managed to get his end in after making yarch the best it could be is an enigma. Its stories like these, of every day life that give Jamie the will and strength to wake up and lose it all over again on the big questions. Those elusive chases, that rush, Where do we fit in?, Why the garbage man never gets out and picks up the bins he knocks over leaving rubbish strewn in the gutter? Why does he look smug when you ask him? Why, is it that he comes down your street every week, but not one Christmas card in 5 years? No, “hi I saw your car in the driveway, thought I’d come in and share a cuppa tea” or “its been too long, I had a dream about you last night, but you weren’t you – lets chat about that some” Not once. Is the world in 2097 worthless, without smugness, thanks or sanitary conditions?

Ask yourself

To be continued…..

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