The Paradox of Shifting Interests

‘Til she came to me one evening
Hot cup of coffee and a smile
In a dress that I was certain
She hadn’t worn in quite a while

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There was a difference in her laughter
There was a softness in her eyes
And on the air there was a hunger
Even a boy could recognize

While anxiously driving south down a broken road, vase of flowers and gift wrapped socks next to him, an inexplicable force pushes the nose of his vehicle off the road and he, at once, finds himself traveling east down the slope of a field. The force of the turn tossed the vase and gifts out the passenger window, and although he may have liked to brake, fetch them, and return to his original course, there is no brake pedal to be found…and the excitement of watching the grass flying past him in all directions makes him rapidly lose interest in where he was even going in the first place..

I’ve long been fascinated with, and terrified by, the ability individuals possess to change direction in interest so wholly, whimsically, and thoroughly. It is this central force that seems to bring about the full range of human reactions toward one another. It crushes the hearts of men and flushes the hearts of women. It accounts for every magically intimate evening, and every betrayal. And while it is not my place to be concerned with another’s motives, I’ve often lamented and questioned my own seemingly unwavering disposition, and it’s failure to compare to the vast majority of easily shifting interests. I’ve often considered that my steadfastness and inability to tire of that which interests me is simply an inherit part of being a man, or at the very least an ideal one, in the sense that it’s a natural part of a man’s position to provide effortless stability. It is, in fact, only in rare moments of great and helpless duress that something will push my perspective awry, swiftly shifting my tentative convictions and interests in one quick and fell swoop. It is this problem of being fixed, and stagnantly lagging in the ability to shift and change and adapt with the rest of the organic world, that has assisted me in defining the nature of that which I allow myself to become fixated with.

I gave up the practice of taking bedfellows with the dying, and instead began to commune and surround myself with statues; the unwavering principals that lay beneath the veneer of organic sheddings. Among that which neither grows, nor wilts, my spirit lingers…and while the vessels for such statues come and go with the breeze, there is never a sense or a feeling of loss on their behalf, for while the organism may dry up and fall from the branches, the spirit it represents is eternal and consistent.

This may be one of the few mediums of paradox who’s merit I question, however, as I seem to recall the thrill of acquiring a new mortal fascination to be worth more than the anguish of losing one. I remain characteristically and perpetually undecided on the matter, and continue to gather moss…endlessly debating whether I should embrace both living and dead, or remain involved with that which is neither.

I often think about that summer
The sweat, the moonlight and the lace …

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