This is about spoons. But it (this post) is not about the kind of spoons that are not there - those imaginary gems we see on the screen and put into our mental matrices.
No. Not this.
Not this at all. This is not real.
Let's drop a few pegs down, shall we?
“They think he's a street person, or he's doing this because he can't hold down a regular job. They put him a few pegs down on the social ladder because of how they perceive someone who dresses differently.” - Chris Cornell
"He's going to be there," a voice had said.
"He who?" the other had answered.
"The Spoonman... Artis!"
"A spoon artist?" he said, still not getting it.
"He's famous. Has played all over the world. A world-famous busker."
"Look. I'll go. I didn't really know Builder, but I'll go for his widow. Not that I'm a big fan of memorials or anything."
The memorial service was a community thing, held by people who had known each other for quite some time. The widow had been a pillar of sorts and her husband... he'd been willing to do things his own way, off the grid for the most part. He'd gone blind before he died a somewhat premature death. Last time 'Courier' had see Builder had been at a drum circle. He had had his cane with him to serve as his 6th sense. A cane. A cane that didn't really make up for the abandoned eyes floating in their sockets behind an over-sized pair of black shades. At the drum circle, Builder sat off to the side, just smiling and listening.
So now, Builder was dead. Diabetes has a way of doing that to some people. All those good times borrowed against during our youth...well...some people have to pay back their health debts all at once, so it seems. Out of the red and into the black.
Memorial services were never a thing for him. Part of the reason comes from urban wisdom that dictates everyone be polite about this life. Very few people seem to actually wanna admit that most of our troubles are somehow bred from our illusions of what life is supposed to be about. Very few people will admit this in the open, out in front of a crowd anyway. And for the most part, life does seem to do pretty well just kind of flowin' on its own.
So, when a fairly normal looking man... fairly normal in the sense that he didn't really stand out where he was... when this fairly normal looking fellow stepped to the front of the gathering and laid out his wares, Courier had not a clue as to what he was about to witness. Something happened in the performance that wouldn't let those moments simply fall back into the general wrack of memories. Nope. There are some things you just can't forget, maybe because they remember you.
And while he, Courier, isn't still sure exactly what that something was, he kind of knows that it's still there.
Borrowing a little from the Spoonman:
To all you, out there, who are presenting emphatically what you believe in... to all you crazy, self-absorbed, bloodthirsty, brutally honest... to you blog-evangelists, "Thank you."
A good interview...
Bits and pieces from another conversation someone else had:
Artis: I think, in general, yes. I hesitate to make any general statements about that because I could easily find my foot in my mouth. But the English-speaking places, like Australia, they are more determined to be isolated. Australia is a country of bigots-the whites are the complete dominant race, it's like being in the U.S. in the late '50s.
When Courier read this, he thought, "Well, if the Yanks are so ignorant, it could be related to the kind of news many of them tend to watch. And considering who has been in charge, it more or less makes sense."