The Next Move

His grandfather had stopped playing when his son defeated him. His father continued to struggle as often as he could against the seasoned competitor that he had become since that day he had asked about the existence of a local chess club. The game itself proved to be the adversary he himself had been unable to conquer. Did he care as passionately as his grandfather had? No. Was he as persistantly unaware as his father? No. Was he upset when the clocks starting running out on him. . . ?

The simple act of the acting - deciding upon a course of action and taking it - began to lose its flavor. Stagnation quickly became the antagonist. It had only been a dream. . . lies. . . he knew the truth long before he could put it into words, but he refrained from screaming out. (!) His poetry said it powerfully even if not clearly. It demanded a reader's attention. And, yet, he failed his english class despite writing multiple pieces for his school's holocaust memorial week display. Although, no one asked how he could relate to holocaust victims so well. . . let us simply marvel at this 'savant!'

And then, the clock ran out. . .

The pieces are put into their places and the game begins anew. That's the one of the beautiful things about the game. It starts the same way every time. All the possibilities are still possible and you still have every opportunity to win. However, life is not this game. It has a different kind of distinction and yet remains wholly continuous despite itself. Last week was the start of such a period even though the start was only felt this beginning-ness because of the ever presense of future moments continually looming ahead of him - smacking him in the face at each mirror glance; potentially materialized homelessness. . . The order had been given. The date had been set, but he still couldn't see the move. Time pressure was building and it was becoming palpable when he would draw in that classic weighted breathe.

It made sense and he didn't dispute that fact. The fact is you have to pay to remain alive. No matter how you live that life, it is going to cost someone something. The landlord, slumlord perhaps is more appropriate, had the belief that everything is a gamble. There is no sure thing. Of course, a gambler would delude his or herself into believing such a lie. It was this distinction that made him believe that he wasn't a gambler himself, but he had to realize that he had taken far too many chances by this point. He gave the army three years and training time and he escaped with the whole rest of his life and the entirety of his body and mind. Everything had always been changing. The times would driving toward a new era and the environment was shifting into a new arena. The saying is that this happens, things become more the same. It's one of the many paradoxes of life that he comtemplated from time to time and yet he thought that it was just as foolish and pointless as it was meaningful. He'd come to believe that people aren't things. And, while one might take such a statement for granted. One would be wrong for not recognizing that far commong practice of reducing individuals into property. You give something a name and suddenly you have power over it. One can imagine that would be a very good reason for never using one's real name. But, what is a name? And, how many people use their 'real' one, anyway? Angela is Angie or someone else must of the time.

So, that does it all to come?