Francis Meyrick

An interesting question may be as follows:
“If Life for us humans is temporary and finite, then is this experience we are having just a mere intermezzo? An interlude? A pause? ” And, leading on from that: “If so, then what are we pausing FOR? “
If Life is the popcorn break, then what is the movie that’s playing? If Life is the anomaly, then what is the constant? If Life is the lucky hole-in-one, then what is the rest of the game like?

I walk along the beach.
Windy. Overcast, dull, gray sky. Mournful sea gull cries. Tide’s coming in. I zip up my jacket against the cold. A broken beer bottle intrudes into view, a discarded six pack carton, some flattened Budweiser cans. Testimony to those who have been, and left, and never bothered to concern themselves with those yet to come.
Offshore, the waves look to be ten to twelve foot high, with angry, white, blowing manes. But the beach is shallow, and the wavelets rippling in have lost their ferocity. Tamed, beaten down, with barely a whimper, they run out of energy, and stall feebly on the gentle upslope. The small, polluted crest, barely two inches high, is a distant shadowy relic of the proud breaker further out.
I smile grimly to myself. I see too well the metaphor for human life.

A shrimp boat is coming in.
The bored and tired crew, sorting their catch, are throwing the bycatch overboard. That, in turn, has attracted hundreds of hungry birds. Swooping, diving, fighting and screeching, they compete bitterly for dead scraps. The occasional victor, his mind focused only on his prize, twists and corkscrews away from his pursuers, convinced, for that heady moment of glory, that the essence of life has been richly achieved.
I grimace to myself. I see too well the metaphor for human competitive madness.

So… those sad little ripples, pale shadows of angry waves of yesterday, are like the ticking mechanism of an old clock. As regular, as inevitable, as predictable, as a metronome.
Tick-tock….tick-tock…tick-tock…

And, one day, in between two of those sad little ripples, those pale shadows of bygone angry waves, my heart shall stop. And I shall be no more. “Passed on “, is the euphemism.
“Croaked “, is the alternative.
I don’t find it a scary thought, or even a depressing one. Interesting. Especially when you see the mad, frantic dash and grab for money and power that goes on everywhere.
Humans are funny. I feel like asking:
“Do you think you can take it with you? “
“Why the rush? “
“Hey! Bonzo! Slow down! “

Life is just an intermezzo. An interlude. A very, very interesting one. But it’s just a stage post. It’s not the be all and the end all. Listen… to the music.
Tick-tock….tick-tock…tick-tock…

I’m contented. To live each day like it might be my last.
I’m contented. To write, to listen, to talk, to sing…. and to be quiet, and enjoy the peace of the rippling wavelets breaking on the sand.

It’s not fame we should target. Or money. Or wealth. Who cares if we are published, or read, or famous? We should write for the sheer love of writing, and self expression.
It’s the experience that counts. The joy. Of life and living.

The tide’s coming in. And the winds are strengthening. There’s a storm brewing. Maybe even a hurricane.
I zip up my jacket, chuckle to myself, and stride forwards, purposefully, alone, determined to enjoy…

the Intermezzo.

Francis Meyrick
(c)

Last edited by Francis Meyrick on August 10, 2009, 9:19 pm