Now is "later--later!"

As concerning some of the time spent in an empty apartment in Oakland, Ca. after the success of "operation keys," which involved a two and a half mile walk from the train station with a heavy suitcase, a heavy attache case, and an inconvenient and awkward box--the weight of which resulted in a sore neck/back, bruised shoulders, and the length of which, the walk I mean, resulted in a giant blister on the left heel--and following to a "T" these instructions: "When you get to [the] place on [Certain] St., the first building on the left, you will see, to the side of the main front entrance, a garden. Take the stairs down into the garden and find a toilet with plants pouring out of it. There is a seashell below it...lift it up--keys."

I am considering putting everything I write within quotations, in order to acknowledge that anything I say has already been said by someone, somewhere, and at some time. If it were not for the fact that such a task seems extremely tiring, I would certainly do so. I am, however, quite lazy when it comes to such matters, so I will ask you, reader--if you exist; you must exist--to please imagine the quotations are there, though invisible, from here on out; no, rather from the beginning of this paragraph, forward.*

Having made that statement(again, and again, and so on), I will also say that the acknowledgment of such does not hinder my desire to continue to speak, to tell stories, to repeat, repeat. In fact, I am somewhat encouraged by it because a) anything I say can be attributed to someone else, therefore largely freeing me of the personal responsibility which comes with "individual thinking" and creative license, and b) if I am compelled to reiterate things said repeatedly through the ages, then there is clearly a timeless quality to whatever I say, even if it appears minute or trivial on the surface--a fine notion that I am more than willing to believe in.**

Moving on, as always.
On to the relation of a short anecdote that occurred in the very garden where "operation keys" was completed, wherein I made my first meaningful connection in Oakland--a squirrel. I was sitting in this garden, mulling over nothing in particular, simply enjoying the day and moment for what they were, and a squirrel appeared in the tree behind me. I turned to face him, and found that he was staring at me. He was somewhat upright, holding in his mouth a peanut, shell and all, turning it over and over presumably to lick off the salt and continuing to stare all the while. I said hello, and stared back. The squirrel put a tiny hand to his chest--and this "hand" was most definitely that of a human--as if to say, "Are you addressing me, sir?" I laughed at his gesture, because we were the only two people in the garden and it was obvious already that I was addressing him. He went back to turning the peanut over in his mouth like an old cowboy with a toothpick.

As the mutual stare was prolonged, I recalled a night where a homeless man had shook my hand for fifteen minutes, without once letting go, while making these small sounds, like "spiritual" moans, telling me, "Ah--oh my...your eyes...Ah--oh my...your eyes...there's something about you...." Of course, I had previously given the man $5, making him then, I suppose, some sort of prostitute of the ego, as he had been paid to say those things for my "benefit." Back in the garden, I wondered if the squirrel might want something from me as well. But squirrels do not smoke--I know that; and to my knowledge, squirrels are not particularly fond of apple juice(was on my last glass at this point); and a squirrel would definitely not find much use for "any part of a dollar." So he must have wanted nothing more from me than the return of the stare, a silent meeting of eyes to express a basic "hello" or "thank you" or whatever, because we both existed in this world and we both seemed to be happy with that fact.

Just then a young man in dark sunglasses strode by, frightening the squirrel into a very strange looking hopscotch out of the tree and across the top of the fence along the garden perimeter--gone; the man continued up the sidewalk towards the garden, and I scurried back inside of the apartment, empty and alone. I peaked out the kitchen window to see if the squirrel had returned; in the squirrel's place was the same man who had frightened the squirrel away, and whose presence had caused me to lose interest in remaining in the garden. He was sitting in the exact chair which I had sat, and the garden didn't look as pretty to me anymore. I walked away from the window.


Enjoy,
Benjamin Font


***Excerpt from a work in progress called, "I Am No One," subtitled, "an imaginary memoir."