Cycles

The invisible clock ticks madly in my head. An e. e. cummings poem sits on my lips. Fragments of songs, a snippet from a short story I read twenty years ago, and the occasional ode are all in a queue waiting their turn.

At work I count the windows that line the long hallway, measuring them with footsteps, two short strides, three long, repeat. The walls are all white, virginal, while through the windows and below construction workers are putting the finishing touches on the massive refurbishing project.

In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo.

“Have any of you ever seen this statue before?” Silence. I grit my teeth. There are some cultural icons that should not need introduction. “Anyone?” A girl in the back raises her hands.
“Why are her arms missing?”
“They were lost in antiquity.” She ponders this for a moment then asks:
“What was she holding?”
“That depends…” I hear myself speaking, but I am no longer listening. An apple, the story of Paris, then, a shield and the story of Venus and Mars, promises of love, illicit love affairs, I tick off the facts while my mind ponders the mystery of symbolism. When does an apple become only an apple once again? When do stories of heroes and goddesses, the birth of sin, or the discovery of the fundamental laws of the universe lose their luster? When the imagination can no longer encapsulated them in a single fruit? Several slides later I have moved on.

Driving home from work I am listening to the radio. “If voters in bellwether states or counties have been right in the past, maybe they'll be right again. But why should we trust them to predict anything at all?” Man is a cyclical creature.

Birth copulation and death, that’s all there is. That’s all there is.

Except it isn’t. We have been reinventing the wheel for ages. A dark age, followed by a rediscovery of the technology of the past, a renewed sense of self importance, an exploration of mankind’s greatness, followed by an exploration of our passions. Comfort, a renewed sense of self security, then disaster. Man is a cyclical creature.

“Do you want the chicken teriyaki?”
“What kind of sauce did you use?
“I mixed a little soy sauce and honey together.”
“Did you use the bottle in the fridge?”
“No.” I lied.
“O.K. But just one piece, and a glass of milk.”
I pour the milk. “How is it?” I ask.
“It’s O.K." she said, helping herself to more, "A little spicy, but o.k. “
“Great.”