Now here's an odd story of the three act performance, so common that few seem to know anything much of it at all... That so many more claim themselves expert, confirms it's truly an odd little story that's never quite told even close to correctly; told here with similar doubts. A story of sex as it's applied throughout all our ages, first conforming to the norms, then twisting itself into an almost admirably honourable perversions; then losing all meaning, becoming a mere aberration or simply that uncomfortable adjunct to everything else. Some of us crave it, other deny it, many stuck inbetween spend their days looking, searching, seeking even desperately striving for the quickest way out of having to act out the performance, at all.

I write it, this story under protest; as its a story I, like many, would rather leave unsaid... but recent over-thinkings and partial observations have awoken that old friend, that good friend, lets call him the ancient young man deep inside me, who when even at my rope's whits end; has always kept me going. I guess I owe him this favor, after caging then valiant attempts at retraining, then believing him and leaving him for half tamed. Starving his feelings on little but hallmarked perversions and pornagraphic leftovers that, if one gave any realistic thought to his situation whatsoever, his thinking... of course you'd draw the conclusion, that he'd gone quite insane. So, here is the favour, the part of his story, he's told me... to some extent is true. (more or less)

In our twenties this ancient young man leads us on missions simply to get what he wanted and I wanted too. To get to act two as quickly as we could with whomever was there, good looking enough, kind enough but more honestly anyone, thing, or flickering image would do. Act two so contorted simply seemed part of the act one mission to get to the ending, that feeling, that craved for buzzing bee, swirling in one's head, that scrambled boy screaming, woo-hoo. An elated emotion or feeling so wanted that sometimes it drove both of us quite simply and easily totally utterly self centeredly and childishly crazy. Act three? Get the mop bucket, there's a mess to be cleaned up... quickly quite often but for some, sadly a chore that remained a forever conclusion, a prison of sorts... a life lived in a long endless the sameness all the same, day after day... after day.

Just a little bit later we'd become much more crafted, directed and focussed. This mission we were told had a grand purpose, to build a new family, boldly with purpose, to extend one's historical dna strain. Proudly we chained our ancient young men deep inside us, not yet into cages but began at least trying to teach them some manners. In other words fooling ourselves by denying act one's mission was exactly the same. With weapons of flowers, maybe poems all smiling sales tactics we hunted for victims, that sad lonely game... Act two still exciting, at least at the outset, searching a simple answer to the most basic of question, would this be the one we'd bend over and ourselve over backwards for day after day? Act three an illusion, still so much to be cleaned up that most of us fooled ourselves by not thinking it all the way through. Accepted the assignment, cheerfully grabbed the mop bucket and did every last little thing, we were told what to do. Other's you know them, they juggled these age related old problems and let their ancient young men out of their cages one night, maybe every night, more often than not, sometimes, more than two.

And then the disaster, as the rest of our life get in the way of this already strained friendship with these ancient young men deep inside us. The pressurized build ups and getting oneself buried in boxes, compartments of stories half written, some abandoned, never finished, some rewarding other simply fancied illusions we still hoped to get to one day. We'd done everything requested though often half hearted... some of us seemingly quite successfully thinking they'd made it all the way though. But upon taking that good look... all a self-fooling old con job as at this age in our lives so few are at all even remotely close to the happiness that's expected, projected to us by the flickering light tubed boxes of noises we find ourselves now subjected to night after night by our lonesome. The missions? Deserted... Act two, if ever got to, simply rolls into act three in mere moments, a clean up to be avoided... even with the dreamed of mistresses too. It all seemed so... over done, finished, we were lied to? Pour me, I mean poor him... my ancient young man, head in hands, now lost deep inside me softly whimpers, boo-hoo.

But then... if ones lucky or clever or made a right decision or two. We stumble and bumble onwards together, perhaps even enlightened into something quite honestly wonderfully true. Call it proper love making, with someone who has been through all the above madness with many another or even just one poor fool head in hand, whose exactly at least quite likely not very much different than you two. A companion co-pilot a kindred spirit a partner whose seen it from her side, all knowing and caring, simply delicious the spirit you've searched longingly for all your life through... maybe, I mean if this story is anything but true...

Act one, far more than simply a diversion or a pleasant distraction from those remaining compartments, those boxes and pressurization for more than just a mere moment much more than the morsel you chewed through on your ancient young man's mission to get it... Act two, simple pure pleasures no hurried-up mandates to reach that elation or anything for else for that matter; and far far more importantly beautifully something than just something to do... If you're brave hearted and brilliant you'll unlock the cages, throw open the door and let that ancient young man who you thought had gone missing come out and play with you ...and you know who too. Act three? As easy as the dishes, an almost instinctual now pleasant part of the performance; done so many times in a mere blink of the twinkling eye and the sudden and thoughtful realization the performance is not over but a  better and comfortable non-conclusion to a more reasoned, soft spoken rewarding and pleasant emotionally thrilling and spiritually enlightened three sinuously connected and now a totally cohesive contiguously sound, sometimes thrillingly easy portrayal of those wondrous vignettes you've played out in acts one and act two.

How's that for a shot of almost unbelievably optimistism for those of us still mired and blue? And here's a little secret, the rub, not the lesson but something to consider maybe pounder for a mere moment with the ancient young man deep inside you... at any old age one can easily unteach all the things we've subjected ourselves and our misbegotten ancient young man deep inside us; unwind those pornographic expectations and embrace the part of the hallmarked elation that are actually quite true. Although he's quite scary to many, frightening us with his grunts and blunt wants and ways in this modern world with it's missions we'd been told almost lady-like how we'd have to get through... every now and then get down to your basement, bring a sandwich a tall drink of something you find pleasant, a paper and pencil or a notepad or two. Those lessons you've taught him may have come in quite handy if conforming to nothing is all that you wanted to do. But... if you want it to be special, sensuous caring and loving... tear up those lessons... and let that ancient young man thought lost deep inside...  teach... you.

So, now that that's written for him, he asked that I leave a note for the ladies, a postscript perhaps as you're a big part of all his stories. I do know for certain, it's not simply a suspicion as I've met a few of yours too. Down in your basement, we both know she's in there, maybe not locked in a cage, but playing with toy dolls, reading old books that you've written and maybe a sweet poem or two. Your ancient young lady, that pretty little darling lover thought lost along the way with so many like them in those basements... I'll say this, almost pleading perhaps even begging because in the end. This story is as much about her as its about these ancient young men deep inside us. These lost men within us, in our own very basements... they have one simple purpose, the finally grandiose last mission and truly quite honestly and more specifically... it's all about you.

The old wandering man with a deep n' distinctly Canadian radio voice led me straight to the door of this old building; old as in it was one of those ugly early 1970's lump of form-molded now mouldering cement basically charmless old buildings. I stepped inside another nondescript glass double doorway, just like every other apartment doorway I've stepped into of late. An airless air-locked vestibule with a panel of apartment buzzer-buttons stretched from here onto almost well, just over there. Random code numbers not matched with any specific apartment nor any place else in space, time or... really. I pressed all the buttons I could with the palm of my hand, if even just to see what might happen. The door lock buzzed once, then twice... a third time "who is it?" crackled over the muffled tin eared old speaker; it didn't matter, I was already inside the inside glass double doors and on into the entranceway corridor.

These apartment lobbies never cease to amaze me. Arranged as if people might actually gather in here. An uncomfortable chair there, far too far away from the ugly unmatched couch over here. A French Regal knock off of a coffee table in-between; so ill spaced it would take even the tallest of someones a hearty lean n' lurch inwards just to reach someone's now getting too cold cup of coffee... A bank of four elevators, none yet on the ground floor. A small wait as I fixed on an idea of just what it was I'd get up to. That old man with the deeply distinctive Canadian radio voice may have led me here, but he didn't leave me a clue as to what I might do. On into the elevator, the one second from the left... no thirteenth floor, we'll head on up to fourteen, meh, it's all just the same... each floor upon floor upon floor and on upwards, all just the same as this mis-numbered thirteenth.

As I stepped off the elevator, feet firmly planted onto a well trampled down overly vacuumed still dirt laden body-oil n' sweat stained old carpet; with a pattern so ridiculous I won't bother to describe it. All at once taken aback by the far too familiarly spiced-pungent smell of poorly prepared ethnic cooking. A wretched smell with no specific geography, just for certain not from anywhere remotely near here. I went left down the hallway, the numbers shrinking down in my direction, growing back up to the left. At the end of the hall I found a door not locked but unopened. Why not, I was here, so I went on inside.

A spartan arrangement of more mismatched furnishings. Too stuffed couches and a recliner propped upright right in front of the TV... It was on, with volume turned down, I didn't recognize the show it was airing. I wandered around what little there was to wander around in. A peek out the balcony window, the bedroom strewn with a least a week's worth of unwashed clothing. An odor, faint at first seemed to swell as I approached what was likely the bathroom. I braced myself for forest greens or flamingo pinks and an un-flushed and stained stinky toilet.

Of course I was obviously a little surprised to find that old hag Mrs. Brown faced down on the, oddly enough bone white tiled floor. Her bluing hair matted in a clot of blood that had circled her head as if it was just a bit frightened to ooze out much further. A naked lump of a lady in a quite unlady-like arrangement; feet bent up backwards, dangling inside the bathtub. The torn off the rod shower curtain clutched in her now cold n' stiff wee little wrinkled old hand. No foul play. Just a sad slip and one less lonely old lady waits, getting colder, for some long lost uncaring family member to notice she hadn't called to complain for a few too many more days than as per usual... I let her be. First closing the slit of a lightless bathroom window so that the stench of her death might leak more quickly into and mix with the odor of the ill prepared ethnic cooking down the hallway. Someone would notice soon enough I figured as, I had, twice before.

Down at the other end of this hallway the Baxters were at it again. He'd started drinking for the very last time again early that morning. Mrs. Baxter's tears of enragement swelling up as she told him at the top of her lungs this was it, for the very last time... all over again like the last time. I had an immediate and eerie premonition that we'd be reading of Baxter's well timed and well planned in advance suicide in the morning papers one evening later that week. Above the Baxters ol' Ralph Simmons was having an uneasy sleep in his easy chair in front of a TV that hadn't worked properly for ages. Next door, apartment 15B, the sweet-hearted Mistress Patricia, the building's Dominatrix was turning most likely her 1000th trick; "NO SEX" claimed her advertisement. Apparently that was just to ensure guaranteed and regular insertion on the back pages of the local entertainment weekly. I guess someone somewhere still lives up to some standard through even all this... somehow they do it.

The elevator bell dinged to let off some people; signalling the right time to duck into the stairwell. I'd rather I'd not had been seen wandering around all alone here in these hallways. The next best thought to go through my mind was to head for the rooftop to see if this lonely old dump of a place filled with lonely dumpy old people would afford me a view. Brilliant as I found no lock nor alarm, so in a breeze I was outdoors again, in utter relief just to breathe. I'd felt no sadness having seen the old hag Mrs Brown faced down in her final un-lady-like posture; nor any anxious anxiety having listened to the Baxter's have at it again. I just wanted out of here and into some fresher air on this very cold winter's evening... heading towards the edge of the building to have a good look, without even thinking I took one giant lurch of a leap up and over the...

As I drifted on upwards, the dump of a place shrunk before me in perspective against the snow covered mound upon which it uneasily rested. I was surprised not to find it nestled into a more likely clump, or is it cluster, of developer-densified, un-stylishly cheap-assed lower middle class highrise housing apartment might be situated in the projects... It stood there all by its lonesome, totally on it's own; on it's perch on the bald of this barron rounded mound. No other buildings, no strip mall nor plaza nor another split level ranch style house within miles in either direction.

Off in the distance the sights and sounds of three bright n' shiny well washed firetrucks racing toward the place caught my attention. Growing louder now and with an urgent official like vigor, they pulled up alongside this crummy old apartment. The reddest of red fire engine paint jobs glistened alongside the all day with nothing better to do polished chrome. Washed wiped n' waxed to the point where one could barely stand to stare into it, lest catch a glimpse of themselves they'd rather not see. A burly gruff of a well uniformed fireman stepped out of the first truck walking more slowly than one might have expected. He looked at the plaque bearing numbers indicating the address above the outside glass double doorway that lead to the vestibule too full of apartment buzzing buttons. With a turn to his mates, a nod in agreement, he pulled out a match, struck it and lit the shit-hole on fire. It went up like a light, like a late summer's Lower East Side tinder-box ghetto disaster n' poof... it was gone. That lonely dump of a place, dumped full of lonely people with so little left to do they'd stopped doing anything at all ages ago... It was gone in a flash puff of odorless smoke and good riddance. Except for Mr. Baxter not a single one of those sad lonely souls survived it... of course they'd all lost their battle to live to that loneliness in that lonely building oh so many long years ago...