Standing on Quicksand Read online

  Searching for solid ground

  Few in the bustling crowd at the country bar paid any initial attention. It was ‘open mic music’ night and there had already been a random assortment of meager talent crossing the weathered-wood stage. Cowboy boots had kicked the wood shavings and peanut shells strewn on the floor into drifts in dim places. A grizzled man mounted the stairs to the stage with some effort, carrying a battered guitar case. The case was busted apart at the seams like something wild had been trapped inside and escaped long ago. It was held together only with tape and twine mirroring the condition of the broken down figure carrying it. He shambled over to the stool, slowly lowering himself down. Amongst the constant droll of conversation, clinking of glasses, and the occasional laugh the old man took his acoustic guitar out and tuned the strings. The performer sat hunched over rubbing his chin as if conjuring up a long lost tune from the depths. He pulled the mic stand a little closer and his fingers started a slow melancholy dance. Slowly leaning in with a voice as rough as sandpaper started to sing.

  Oh I’ve been floating here and there

  Bobbing this way and that

  Got real drunk last night,

  And ended up with a tat.

  Can’t tell which way is up

  Can’t tell which way is down

  I’m just trying to hold-on

  Til I can find solid ground.

  Can’t tell where I’m going

  Can hardly tell where I been

  My focus keeps shifting

  From bottle, to women, to sin

  Waitin’ for a reply to prayers

  But I haven’t heard no sound

  I’m just trying to hold-on

  Til I can find solid ground.

  Slowly heads turned and beer bottles were set down. Quiet came as smoke from cigarettes unfurled on the ceiling. There was a strange attraction to the sad ballad that everyone seemed to recognize but no one had ever heard. There was a yearning in souls that night to reach thru the reflection, a strange recognition that resonated with the sound vibrations from the guitar strings.

  Can tell you I feel abandon

  Kicked to the side of the road

  Life keeps laying upon me

  And I’m breaking under the load.

  One day I’ll meet my maker

  When buried under a mound.

  But for now I’m just trying to hold-on

  Til I can find solid ground

  Except for the lamentation broadcast from the speakers the silence was thick in the air. The mournful dirge simmered down to a low rhythm and the tired figure on stage hung his head before moaning out the last stanza.

  Oh sometimes I look in the mirror

  My face is wrinkled and marred.

  I harken back to a younger day

  When life didn’t seem so hard.

  When I was still searching

  For the thing that can’t be found.

  Oh for now I’m just trying to hold-on

  Just trying to hold-on

  Til I can find solid ground.

  As the strings on the guitar settled there was only stunned silence and not the initial applause that one might expect. Everyone obliquely recognized this man. He was the homeless bum sheltering under a thread bare blanket in the dark alcove by which we all quicken our steps in an attempt to elude our own shame. He is the person whose desperation we have absolutely no reference to, searching in the street gutter for used cigarette butts which may just have a few more puffs of tobacco in them. The silence lingered a moment longer but the collective conscience was deafening.

  Interlude #8

  A shallow pond is as easy to cross as the deepest lake as long as you stay on the surface and keep the far shore in sight.