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Indistinct Visions of Four Futures
I’m
sitting in a friend’s bedroom. It is late and I am peaceful. We have been
watching and talking of mildly interesting things of little import, though at
this point the proceedings have reached a natural lull. In the quiet I’m struck
by a sudden realisation, perfect in its clarity. For each of us I see another, similar figure in the same space. The figures are larger and more indistinct;
representative of a possibility rather than a concrete reality. Each figure is
clearly in a different, future setting but I cannot see precisely what that
might be.
The first
of my companions has paused, leaving a cigarette half-rolled to enjoy idly throwing
a lighter into the air and catching it. These distinct actions both seem an
incredibly worthy use of his time. If he catches the lighter it’s completely
okay because he chose to do it so of course he would succeed. If he misses it’s fine because he is just messing around. He returns to his rolling and his
deliberate, practised movements are entirely in accordance with some plan he’s
hatched or orders he has received. The translucent animus following his
movements seems to be wearing a uniform. I cannot be sure whether it is best
dress or combat fatigues or a well-made but slightly over-worn blazer, but it
conveys purpose. Whether it is a terrible objective or a wonderful aim I cannot
be certain, but the clothes of the image seem entirely suitable for the task at
hand. This is a man who will be certain of things and his place within them.
The
second young man is to the right of the first. He is reclining on a bean-bag;
smoking a cigarette he was lent; lent because although the lender would not get
the same fag back again there is an amicable certainty that the debt would be
repaid quickly and without fuss or any uncomfortable sense of obligation. He
sits up to make use of the ashtray on one corner of the bed and meets my eyes
when he becomes aware of my gaze. He holds it while we share a laugh about
something that I can’t quite remember and returns to his squidgy throne. He is
the youngest of our group – the hairs on his chin the unshaved fur of an
adolescent lion rather than anything approaching an actual beard. He also the
most silent, though this is by nature and not by status. I see a confident and
content figure occupying the same space as this cub. It is possibly arranging
the affairs of its pride with calm, unopposed authority; possibly improving life for those around it
with a subtly jovial presence and a few carefully timed words. Either way this
future will be, barring great catastrophe, of positive worth to those who
encounter it.
My third
colleague in my evening of positively unproductive time-passing is the one whom
I’ve known the longest. With the music idly shuffling between genres it is his
ceiling at which we are staring; it is his realm and he is holding court. He is
discussing something delightfully unimportant with a knowing and deliberate, patently preposterous patina of pomposity. We are amusing ourselves by not
letting him make his point. He is amusing us by rising to the bait. It is an
act made funnier by the times we can all think of when it was genuine
irritation. He is a legitimately good man: dedicated, loyal, diligent, generous, and ready to listen. This is why I am made uncomfortable by some of what I’m
seeing in the nebulous figure loitering about him. I do see all the positive
qualities which make me his friend, but they have been corrupted. Pessimism at
his chances of success has worn the dedication to listlessness; emotional
wounds have built walls around his loyalty; without passion for his tasks his
diligence has fled; no one gives to him anymore so generosity is a childhood
fairytale; he is surrounded by and has learned from a cadre of closed-eared
pseudo-friends. The indistinct figures may just be the idle imaginings of a
weary mind, but I am worried nonetheless. The social being learns much from
those who surround it, so I hope this dear friend of mine plants himself in
loving soil.
And
what of myself? Can the cracked and imperfect lens be used to examine the
wielder? I try. I see a man, sat thinking, with a distracted look upon his
face. I do not know what it is going through his mind, nor can even guess the nature of
the thought. Is it a carefully constructed network of highways linking towns
across a vast and peopled plain? Is it a lightning flash, sudden and wonderful,
short-lived and evading capture? Is it a vortex, spinning and consuming,
sucking all into its Charybdic maw, swallowing the hopeful sailors as they
strive vainly for the safety of their native harbour? Or is it an old lapdog by
the fire enjoying the warmth, and content for any who wishes to give a pat and
bit of ham? I don’t know – I was interrupted by a proffered bottle and a
request to put something funny up on the screen. It’s probably (I decide as I
take a swig of something sweet and fiery) either all of them or none of them.
It might be interesting to see but futures can wait; we’ve got cartoons to
watch.
One hopes you're well
yrs,
ADWoodward
