As he speaks he looks sideways every so often. Then, he pauses as if to gather his thoughts. Some say he does not really know what to say, that he is an impostor, a caricature mastermind googol over, alliteration in transition. He says he agrees, partially, that his kin bears nothing new, but that however, he must change.
Yet, they listen. Perhaps it is his manner, or even his tone, the prosody of incantation wandering souls may relish as atonement promised to relieve an angst that appears to imperil even the extracorporeal. His entreaty echoes resolve he says to end the apathetic hubris, atavistic albeit realistic in the given dispensation.
That reality, which he expressly abhors, impels even so the aspiration that seems contiguous yet clad in shinier graphics he sometimes feels is incongruent given his tendency for complacency from demoralization embedded in the endless vicissitudes that variegated consciousness brings.
He speaks of his labour for so long, his passion for what for him transcends all else in matters unresolved lay bare the generic that infuses the continuity we assume is imperative to critical equally eternal elemental forces that threaten to implode on our inherently unstable reality.
It all sounds familiar they say, petulant, clearly wary of his motives, some openly alluding to a sly ploy to fleece one for another, to seek penance with caustic narratives reeling in shamed potion of yore. Those that openly support him ballyhoo the muck of a mutual accord in reality all should eschew, the promise of the link in time traversed we risk to lose.
Nothing it seems would reassure sceptics of a noble goal he proclaims, in seeming frustration over his inner conflicts that he admits color even his view in the flux to which the crinkles arising thereof in his soul cannot it appears escape into the clarity he professes his mission requires for fruition, the graphics regardless.
His confidants assuage his clearly tormented soul with inner conflicts of their own, what he considers should brace his resolve to meet the tests ahead frontally. For someone who the thrust of headship seemingly thrills, even if given his admission, for posterity, they concur their pain should indeed, inspire, as does his.
That though seems redundant to others, who say the enormity of the resources the matter would gobble is not consonant with his stated leadership goal. In fact, they argue that it defies reason not to situate the goal in the atavistic cacophony that interrupts the missives, an admission they say of the veneer that cloaks the narratives received, revealed.
He concedes the intricacy of the mix, the conflicts of the link that binds, one that states the subject but is bleary re the object, albeit devoid of malice, the cognitive dissonance of the elite zeitgeist in a milieu in continual flux simply consuming he argues for any head to seem to break the tie.
Somehow, he carries on, deep into the night, probing he says the convoluted psyche into which dumps confusion over time that kinks it in history, perhaps to heal his sore spirits, and by extension all. He says the task needs done, and that now is the time to do so. They all agree, but not about how.
It is not unusual for the folks to gather in Sammy’s home. That seems to be the only place big enough to contain even the few keen enough about issues that they all nonetheless agree affect all. This time, however, the debate seems interminable, to the clear irritation of the host.
At last he seems ready to end it. He gets up to speak, but someone, hitherto no doubt canvassing for him, buts in to express dissent over the details of his plans. He is clearly shocked. Not known people say for much other than verbal calisthenics, musings by his inner circle otherwise, notwithstanding, the picture seems about to change given his emergent athetoid facial contours.
The question his surmises clearly pained is the same as he proposed that of the atavistic flavouring of contemporaneous narratives. Even his erstwhile friend agrees, but stresses the need to embrace defensible positions, about which he says no one seems any longer to care. So, the debate goes on rather than stop as he now apparently finds himself stuck in limbo, in the firing line between friends and foes.
When he says he finally realizes his inner conflict being in his way to achieve what he even so considers crucial to his legacy, his approach to which he claims the future would vindicate, the room becomes palpably silent. At after midnight, he says that one or two stanzas of melodic yawns attest to the looming paradigm shift that would unite the screaming Babel, he opines, seemingly forcing a smile.
He dismisses hints that he bears the truth though, one he claims manifests in the ongoing saga holding all back, the endowment of completion when in fact none is probably possible given the perpetuity of the flux in which the generic operates, one in which adaptability informs continuity, the very reason he adjoins change becomes imperative, how, the object of the fleeting impostor an awareness itself transitory embraced does.
The concerted nods in the room as he speaks and the increasingly wry smile in one corner of his mouth tell the ambient shift, with even yawners, who may have been rudely aroused by the ensuing acclamation spontaneously coupling. It becomes clear then that the consensus predicates on rejecting entrenched views, forged prior, lacking bearing in pliable circumstances.
Sammy is now awake. He apologizes for losing track. He says he follows his pattern, and that it is well past his bedtime. His guests align with him but stress that he may need to adjust to changing locations when he sleeps so that he does not interject vital events with an alien tongue. He protests jokingly that he is not the only yawner in the room.
Two hands in unlike garments spring up ostensibly in concord, his baritone following with “you see.” The room roared with laughter, many pointing at Sammy, or perhaps his hands, one in his shirt, and the other in his jacket, still up in the air, if not his typical and evident wide grin.
