Half Empty

Sitting in a local bar, crowded around two small tables pushed together, among a group of intellectuals, I found myself once again listening to a conversation of moral certitude. What needs to happen, what could and should take place. All lined up in a neat logic that only irrational zealots could argue. It seemed a blueprint for action was concretizing in front of our eyes, as was the thickening smoke from everyone’s cigarettes. The conversation was excitedly quick and always competing with the music blaring from the jukebox and the distraction of the flickering television. “This is what needs to happen,” working words mapping an abstract though released in an instant of necessity and gobbled up by those of us close enough to hear. The table, full of empty plates, drinks and thoughts resided in a sea of unseen others, patrons, who in a blur of movement in our periphery had to go around our table to reach the bathroom.