Master and Companion
Mr. Brown woke up one morning with a purpose. He had a meeting with death. Everything was, this morning, just as it was the night before. Perhaps Mr. Brown was a day older, only in the sense of time, though, to the human eye nothing had changed. But still, perhaps things had changed, the difference as obvious as the difference between night and day, sometimes are not entirely easy to see, over a course of time so minimal as the passing of night in to day. The thought lingered like the overcast morning outside his window.
Mr. Brown remained a moment longer in bed, pondering his reservations, thought over this later reservation, but into his thoughts he lapsed back, and in bed remained not a moment longer. Mr. Brown became automated. The day, like so many others in a long span before it, had begun. His creaky knees squeaked, he rolled across the bed springs. Even after his wife had passed, ever since he was a small child, Mr. Brown was in the habit of pushing his bed towards a windowless corner of whatever room he occupied, and sleept against that wall. Mr. Brown slept like a child, even as an old man. Each night the same, nestled in the womb that fosters the return of memory- if repetition says anything at all for remembering, then not a day had passed. Each morning the same, like awakening from the first night he ever remembered falling asleep. And so like most every other morning, Mr. Brown found he had a lot of recollecting to do, if simply to establish where he truly was this morning, and to avoid the melancholy that is trying to exist in a lost age that would no longer accept him. He rolled to the far side of bed, through his childhood, and over his adult married life, back in to the present day.
As he sat upon the edge of the bed, gathering his thoughts and his slippers from the night before, he recalled that the dreams of youth are as persistent as they are fleeting. And sometimes to forget is to be lucky, and sometimes to remember nothing at all, is to be the luckiest still.
Instinctively, he kissed the portrait on the dresser. Reflexively, it made him think of the many other portraits of people in his life, over which they now or once held sway. Some of them are gone, some of them are distant, some he sees as frequently as he changes his mind. Some of them are lucky, he thought, some he’d just have to wait and see.
In and out and through the personal parts of his morning he trudged, the gravity of this day seemed to wear heavier upon him than usual, he had not aged perceptibly over the course of one night, just his dreams made it seem so. Last night he dreamt the dreams of a younger man, and, as was his fashion, he was late to be somewhere he could no longer go. Try as he might, he could not reach that point in time, on time, though he had been there once before, long ago. It was always the dreams that were, that are hardest to shake, though many imagine it to be otherwise. They'll just have to wait and see, thought Mr. Brown.
In the kitchen he fed Woland. Standing before his breakfast Woland become automated, reflexively eating the very thing he had dreamt about. Some are born lucky, thought Mr. Brown. A short life, and a good one, dreams readily attained, dreams steadily renewed, each night ere light, brought forth anew.
This was Woland's time. Mr. Brown was a night owl, accustomed to remaining as current in the world as possible until his eyelids dropped him out of it. As such he had no desire to read the morning paper, as such, there was no delivery to his house of the morning paper. If only all of the world’s problems were so readily solved, he thought. Any surprises that had come to bear between the night and this morning weren’t allowed to surprise Mr. Brown, at least not yet.
Outside the sun was shining, the old man gazed pensively, he remembered vaguely a day that looked like this one once. It said to him something about leaving. Leaving is just as big a part of any one place as having ever been there, he suddenly realized. And with a scratch at the door these thoughts were put on hold, but not before Mr. Brown could be rendered content with just being, at least for now. Woland had personal goals in sight, these involved going out in to the very world Mr. Brown would much rather ponder, than interface. For his part Woland was as much a morning person as he could be a person, and was very eager to see what was different in the day today. And as much as one loathes surprises, another revels in them, Woland was eager to explore the boon of new surprises which existed in the great unknown of a new morning in the world just outside the door before him.
And suddenly cast as opposites, master and companion set forth on the very same journey, unremarkable to one, potentially life-altering for another. Who exactly is the captain of this soul? Mr. Brown was taken suddenly by this thought; Woland has places he wishes to go, things he must do, even now I wander, relegated to procurator of wishes, merely a means to another's joyful ends. What of my life? Were it not so that once I was the one longing to be set loose upon the world? It’s hardly ever a straight line that gets us anywhere, he supposed. Today I am content to follow another's.
Some time later, Woland on his leash, was now asleep, most likely lost in dreams of the world just outside his door. Or maybe dreaming of the meals he ate within them. It should be noted that Woland was on his leash more for his own protection than another's, Woland was prone to spring from his dreams determined to pursue in life the goals he had just had in mind, imagined or real, past or present. Such ambition is admirable, in man and dog alike, and while in his thoughts Mr. Brown admired the dog's spirit, he was ever vigilant to remember that it is a confusing business, remedying dreams with reality. If only he could find a leash of his own, he almost laughed at the picture in mind of that very thought. For his part Mr. Brown was seated in his Adirondack chair, as it was a sunny day, and it was not yet winter time. Mr. Brown was more likely than not to be found in that chair. From this vantage he would spend hours watching the cars roll by, or day-dreaming, little did he realize it was the advance of years that kept him at bay, should he decided one fine afternoon to spring forth from his chair to seize a capricious thought.
Mr. Brown wondered if it would’ve been better to be more like Woland, replete with simple thoughts which yielded repeatable, and readily attainable pleasures, albeit pleasures on a par with the degree of his thoughts. Instinctively he recalled he wouldn’t trade a thing, reflexively he waved as a car passed by, studying the concerned look of someone he thought he might feel sorry for. Mr. Brown had been down that road before, and he knew that look. All in all, things look much easier from this chair, he thought.
And like this the day passed, it wasn’t ‘til much later- after an automated lunch for two- that Mr. Brown allowed the world back in. By now Mr. Brown was much better prepared for things to be different, even if in the back of his mind he realized things always were, and that things always would be. Just as the ways of the world were always changing, in this sense things would always be exactly the same, just a few new details to remember. Some of these details had the surprising effect of making things more the same than they were before, some were pertinent reminders that one must now change, be it for better or for worse. Mr. Brown realized it was these differences which he must always be willing to assimilate to, or reconcile with, depending on his thoughts on the matter. In either case anything new allowed him to relate, one must be able to ride the tide, he knew, if one does not wish to sink like yesterday's stones.
In the evening Mr. Brown began to re-read one of his favorite books, usually a Russian classic, or something by Vonnegut. Out of habit he would, at times pick up the phone and dial numbers familiar to him, it was just the voices on the other end that changed. That fact never deprived him of hope, though. If anything, it’s just the difference between then and now that I hear, he thought. He wondered what he would say, if a familiar voice were to ever say hello to him, he hoped that that part would be instinctive, just as he knew that had not yet happened, and very likely never would.
As the night wore on Mr. Brown became consumed by the details of the world he had since let back in, again, the pliable points of change in his mind began to take a firmer shape. Again Mr. Brown became current. And later Mr. Brown and Woland would cross once more over the threshold and out in to the world, Woland anxious to see what was different in the night tonight, Mr. Brown wishing there was someone to wave to, and too wished it were light enough for them to see it if there was. He wondered if he was mistaken about what today was, at the same time he wondered if he had made this very same mistake before, perhaps a day some time ago, not unlike this very one?
Perhaps death could wait, it could certainly be possible there was something left to do for someone like him, yet, at that maybe even tomorrow could be new. Mr. Brown thought for sometime beneath the stars, letting the details of the day roll over him. Letting the details of his life course through his mind, it felt something like vitality, were it tangible. It occurred to him that he had spent a great many nights looking up at these very stars, he always liked to ponder how long ago in the past the light he now saw was emanating from. Thoughts like this almost always came very near to breaking Mr. Brown, invariably though, he would smile. In his own way Mr. Brown would acquiesce to the universe, admitting there was a certain number of many profound things that he would simply never come to understand.
And so with a smile both master and companion made an about face, and headed back for home. One was waiting for a new day, and a chance to once again explore the world. The other was waiting simply to have a definite idea in mind about what was now past, and how to reconile that with what could no longer be. Faintly Mr. Brown admitted to himself that he was glad he was the way he was, melancholy flaws and all, at the same time he tried to think about the number of times he must’ve had the same exact thought. Woland simply pressed onward.
In and out and through the personal parts of his nightly routine Mr. Brown weaved. Now he arranged his slippers at the foot of his bed. Here he sat upon the edge of two different worlds. Instinctively, he looked over the portrait in his hands. Reflexively, he thought about the many other portraits of people once and forever in his life, they would always hold sway, he knew. Some of them are gone, he thought, and some of them are distant. He wondered which he would ever see again, he wondered which he would see first. He loved them all very much, but only some of them are lucky, he thought, though he was never truly sure which.
Eventually Mr. Brown rolled across those same springs of the morning- the kind that make a man feel young again, but only in his thoughts- and back in to his youth. He wondered about the things that were to come, worried that the day for all intents and purposes had been one that was as close as could be to something that never was. Thank god for Woland he thought, thank god for the discoverers, thank god for the dreamers. Mr. Brown buried himself beneath the covers, and sank deeper into his thoughts. Instinctively he felt for the wall against which he had always leaned. Reflexively, he reached back in to his long-lost dreams, intending fully to return to the blissful womb of relief of an unquestioning mother night.
Mr. Brown remained a moment longer in bed, pondering his reservations, thought over this later reservation, but into his thoughts he lapsed back, and in bed remained not a moment longer. Mr. Brown became automated. The day, like so many others in a long span before it, had begun. His creaky knees squeaked, he rolled across the bed springs. Even after his wife had passed, ever since he was a small child, Mr. Brown was in the habit of pushing his bed towards a windowless corner of whatever room he occupied, and sleept against that wall. Mr. Brown slept like a child, even as an old man. Each night the same, nestled in the womb that fosters the return of memory- if repetition says anything at all for remembering, then not a day had passed. Each morning the same, like awakening from the first night he ever remembered falling asleep. And so like most every other morning, Mr. Brown found he had a lot of recollecting to do, if simply to establish where he truly was this morning, and to avoid the melancholy that is trying to exist in a lost age that would no longer accept him. He rolled to the far side of bed, through his childhood, and over his adult married life, back in to the present day.
As he sat upon the edge of the bed, gathering his thoughts and his slippers from the night before, he recalled that the dreams of youth are as persistent as they are fleeting. And sometimes to forget is to be lucky, and sometimes to remember nothing at all, is to be the luckiest still.
Instinctively, he kissed the portrait on the dresser. Reflexively, it made him think of the many other portraits of people in his life, over which they now or once held sway. Some of them are gone, some of them are distant, some he sees as frequently as he changes his mind. Some of them are lucky, he thought, some he’d just have to wait and see.
In and out and through the personal parts of his morning he trudged, the gravity of this day seemed to wear heavier upon him than usual, he had not aged perceptibly over the course of one night, just his dreams made it seem so. Last night he dreamt the dreams of a younger man, and, as was his fashion, he was late to be somewhere he could no longer go. Try as he might, he could not reach that point in time, on time, though he had been there once before, long ago. It was always the dreams that were, that are hardest to shake, though many imagine it to be otherwise. They'll just have to wait and see, thought Mr. Brown.
In the kitchen he fed Woland. Standing before his breakfast Woland become automated, reflexively eating the very thing he had dreamt about. Some are born lucky, thought Mr. Brown. A short life, and a good one, dreams readily attained, dreams steadily renewed, each night ere light, brought forth anew.
This was Woland's time. Mr. Brown was a night owl, accustomed to remaining as current in the world as possible until his eyelids dropped him out of it. As such he had no desire to read the morning paper, as such, there was no delivery to his house of the morning paper. If only all of the world’s problems were so readily solved, he thought. Any surprises that had come to bear between the night and this morning weren’t allowed to surprise Mr. Brown, at least not yet.
Outside the sun was shining, the old man gazed pensively, he remembered vaguely a day that looked like this one once. It said to him something about leaving. Leaving is just as big a part of any one place as having ever been there, he suddenly realized. And with a scratch at the door these thoughts were put on hold, but not before Mr. Brown could be rendered content with just being, at least for now. Woland had personal goals in sight, these involved going out in to the very world Mr. Brown would much rather ponder, than interface. For his part Woland was as much a morning person as he could be a person, and was very eager to see what was different in the day today. And as much as one loathes surprises, another revels in them, Woland was eager to explore the boon of new surprises which existed in the great unknown of a new morning in the world just outside the door before him.
And suddenly cast as opposites, master and companion set forth on the very same journey, unremarkable to one, potentially life-altering for another. Who exactly is the captain of this soul? Mr. Brown was taken suddenly by this thought; Woland has places he wishes to go, things he must do, even now I wander, relegated to procurator of wishes, merely a means to another's joyful ends. What of my life? Were it not so that once I was the one longing to be set loose upon the world? It’s hardly ever a straight line that gets us anywhere, he supposed. Today I am content to follow another's.
Some time later, Woland on his leash, was now asleep, most likely lost in dreams of the world just outside his door. Or maybe dreaming of the meals he ate within them. It should be noted that Woland was on his leash more for his own protection than another's, Woland was prone to spring from his dreams determined to pursue in life the goals he had just had in mind, imagined or real, past or present. Such ambition is admirable, in man and dog alike, and while in his thoughts Mr. Brown admired the dog's spirit, he was ever vigilant to remember that it is a confusing business, remedying dreams with reality. If only he could find a leash of his own, he almost laughed at the picture in mind of that very thought. For his part Mr. Brown was seated in his Adirondack chair, as it was a sunny day, and it was not yet winter time. Mr. Brown was more likely than not to be found in that chair. From this vantage he would spend hours watching the cars roll by, or day-dreaming, little did he realize it was the advance of years that kept him at bay, should he decided one fine afternoon to spring forth from his chair to seize a capricious thought.
Mr. Brown wondered if it would’ve been better to be more like Woland, replete with simple thoughts which yielded repeatable, and readily attainable pleasures, albeit pleasures on a par with the degree of his thoughts. Instinctively he recalled he wouldn’t trade a thing, reflexively he waved as a car passed by, studying the concerned look of someone he thought he might feel sorry for. Mr. Brown had been down that road before, and he knew that look. All in all, things look much easier from this chair, he thought.
And like this the day passed, it wasn’t ‘til much later- after an automated lunch for two- that Mr. Brown allowed the world back in. By now Mr. Brown was much better prepared for things to be different, even if in the back of his mind he realized things always were, and that things always would be. Just as the ways of the world were always changing, in this sense things would always be exactly the same, just a few new details to remember. Some of these details had the surprising effect of making things more the same than they were before, some were pertinent reminders that one must now change, be it for better or for worse. Mr. Brown realized it was these differences which he must always be willing to assimilate to, or reconcile with, depending on his thoughts on the matter. In either case anything new allowed him to relate, one must be able to ride the tide, he knew, if one does not wish to sink like yesterday's stones.
In the evening Mr. Brown began to re-read one of his favorite books, usually a Russian classic, or something by Vonnegut. Out of habit he would, at times pick up the phone and dial numbers familiar to him, it was just the voices on the other end that changed. That fact never deprived him of hope, though. If anything, it’s just the difference between then and now that I hear, he thought. He wondered what he would say, if a familiar voice were to ever say hello to him, he hoped that that part would be instinctive, just as he knew that had not yet happened, and very likely never would.
As the night wore on Mr. Brown became consumed by the details of the world he had since let back in, again, the pliable points of change in his mind began to take a firmer shape. Again Mr. Brown became current. And later Mr. Brown and Woland would cross once more over the threshold and out in to the world, Woland anxious to see what was different in the night tonight, Mr. Brown wishing there was someone to wave to, and too wished it were light enough for them to see it if there was. He wondered if he was mistaken about what today was, at the same time he wondered if he had made this very same mistake before, perhaps a day some time ago, not unlike this very one?
Perhaps death could wait, it could certainly be possible there was something left to do for someone like him, yet, at that maybe even tomorrow could be new. Mr. Brown thought for sometime beneath the stars, letting the details of the day roll over him. Letting the details of his life course through his mind, it felt something like vitality, were it tangible. It occurred to him that he had spent a great many nights looking up at these very stars, he always liked to ponder how long ago in the past the light he now saw was emanating from. Thoughts like this almost always came very near to breaking Mr. Brown, invariably though, he would smile. In his own way Mr. Brown would acquiesce to the universe, admitting there was a certain number of many profound things that he would simply never come to understand.
And so with a smile both master and companion made an about face, and headed back for home. One was waiting for a new day, and a chance to once again explore the world. The other was waiting simply to have a definite idea in mind about what was now past, and how to reconile that with what could no longer be. Faintly Mr. Brown admitted to himself that he was glad he was the way he was, melancholy flaws and all, at the same time he tried to think about the number of times he must’ve had the same exact thought. Woland simply pressed onward.
In and out and through the personal parts of his nightly routine Mr. Brown weaved. Now he arranged his slippers at the foot of his bed. Here he sat upon the edge of two different worlds. Instinctively, he looked over the portrait in his hands. Reflexively, he thought about the many other portraits of people once and forever in his life, they would always hold sway, he knew. Some of them are gone, he thought, and some of them are distant. He wondered which he would ever see again, he wondered which he would see first. He loved them all very much, but only some of them are lucky, he thought, though he was never truly sure which.
Eventually Mr. Brown rolled across those same springs of the morning- the kind that make a man feel young again, but only in his thoughts- and back in to his youth. He wondered about the things that were to come, worried that the day for all intents and purposes had been one that was as close as could be to something that never was. Thank god for Woland he thought, thank god for the discoverers, thank god for the dreamers. Mr. Brown buried himself beneath the covers, and sank deeper into his thoughts. Instinctively he felt for the wall against which he had always leaned. Reflexively, he reached back in to his long-lost dreams, intending fully to return to the blissful womb of relief of an unquestioning mother night.
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