The Lamp Struggle

I see an old man and his wife with a large, heavy looking lamp, reminiscent of the old time gas lamps that lined the streets of Paris in a time before our exploitation of electricity.

With the stand and it’s cumbersome head, easily ten pounds apiece, the man removes it gingerly from the trunk of his silver CRV under the watchful gaze of his wife. I can already see that their intended desire is to sell the lamp is folly. A red sign on the front door of the seldom frequented lamp place across the street states -CLOSED- which now at second glance does actually appear to say -OPEN-.

The man’s legs aren’t what they used to be; he shuffles slowly, but not as slow as others his age might be. His bald head is surrounded by a half circle of frosty hair. With their pace, the man with the lamp, the elderly wife behind him, make their way up the rough concrete stairs: pushed and warped by the grassy hill in front of the old store, attempting to devour all human constructs.
The man pants, battling the growing realization that his carrying days are numbered. Step by step, he makes it, leading his wife from the car to the stairs in the hill.

His wife fusses over something in her bag as the man makes for the door. Before he can reach it, the wife stops and says something along the lines of “I forgot (this or that) at home.”

The man with the lamp turns and irritably talks with her yet only with the kind of anger that comes from the burden of a heavy lamp and annoyance with a loved one.

Anyway, whatever problem occurred, the  two continue along the overgrown concrete towards the door, the old man lugging the heavy lamp, the old woman right behind him until they finally see the entrance which bears the sign. On third glance it must say closed after all. The two stand side by side as though the world has dropped away from them. At first thought to me, it is that they cannot fathom the sign being on display, but more likely they are reading the open/closed times.

Side by side they stand at the door as though something may occur to make it open.

Alas, it is fruitless, and although there is no outward showing of emotion, I get the feeling that the old man is annoyed in that way of a working person, always willing to take the burden but unhappy over futility in it. His world becomes that of Sisyphus in an instant.  The woman is filled with the void of reality, of unhinged plans and wasted time. Just for a moment,

the time it takes for them to make their way back to the trunk of the CRV and stow the heavy lamp for another day.

The Princess

Once upon a time there was a princess. She was the most bitchen’ princess of all the seven realms. People all the times be commin’ up to her for her super rad advice.

Like this one Duke was all: “Yo, how do I reduce energy consumption in my Duchy.”

And she’d be all: “You gotta invest in energy efficient bulbs and solar power and diversify your energy sources. Start to compost n’ shit.”

And the duke be all: “fuckn’ ay thanks!”

She was so cool, she rode around on 15 multicolored unicorns on the reg and she lived in a dope bitchin’ castle; she wasn’t all elitist about it either, like other monarchs, she shared the castle with all the wanderers and destitutes and they all had sweet wicked rad feasts all the time with like local stuffed pheasant and Rice and Kale and oregano, and bacon wafers stuffed in peppers and everyone was full and happy and carefree as goddamned jay birds. They played croquet and rode bikes too.

One day there was an evil wizard who showed up to defile the land from the awesomeness. And so the princess summoned the wizard to her castle and they argued and they fought for many moons until the conflict brought about a reconciliation through words and they decided to be awesome together and so the bitchen’ princess and the magic wizard proceeded to  kick so much ass and the world became way cool.

The End