…or the other way around?
This is one of the hardest blog entries to write, a passel/gaggle of beer, Unobtanium style, wallowing in my stomach juices, leading the way.
There is, in this moment after watching “seeking a friend for the end of the world,” another moment within a moment, when cold medicine leads the way toward a tunnel vision where honesty meets the highway, the Internet highway (Al Gore not included with the likes of Vincent Cerf or others of cyber-hyper byways), that is, Celtic flutes warning me of moments stepping off the road, where in this silent moment of movie soundtracks I find myself leaning against a notebook PC writing words that’ll haunt me forever and a day afterward.
There is a muse, a dancing muse, by the name of Guinevere, who follows Thrush and Monica and Karen (a/k/a Janeil) along with Sarah/Sara and names that’ve paved a highway, pre-Internet (or post, depending on date of invention of the snippet of an idea of an inventor in someone’s womb), where sounds make no difference except in a language, or a discipline of savings, where neither Mandarin or any other makes any difference when one is focused on making, rather than spending, one’s labour/investment credits in a single species’ definition of survival traits on an indifferent planet in an unsensing solar system in a galaxy of possibilities of fermented improbabilities that Edgar Allan Poe would declare a likely story of insensibilities about lost loves and pickled livers.
There is, if memory serves, also Monasha, Sheree, Stacey and others at a diner in the burgh of Huntsville, Alabama, USA, who serve their customers with kindness without reserve.
Deeper still, there is this moment of silent contemplation, where a niece, Jana, and her deacon-ordained husband, Brian, celebrate the discovery of a gender we assign to newborne babes climbing out of wombs and into the worldwide web of the solar system beset by asteroids, solar flares, and traffic incidents recorded by friends such as Nathan who sees perps in every person who displays abnormal behaviour attributed to personality quirks unassigned to basic training in police procedures on policies approved by popularly-elected politicians.
All written in the fog of war.
Let me set the record straight. I see the repetition of a species in competition with itself, in companies vying for limited government resources, who shall get the post-reductorio oratoria of the fat lady singing the swan song of uncompetitive companies incapable of getting the last brass ring of a merry-go-round and round and round of diminishing returns on the global scale of middle-class sales
menpeople telling you what’s best for your family as government coffers compete with private companies for your undivided attention.
As spinning/talking heads babble on unceasingly — baubles, bangles and beads [you know the melody] — one more time we’ll give you the mondo-rhythm, the hidden beat in the religious upbeat of a Bible/Bhagavad Gita/Islam oldtime religion (ignoring the new religion of Darwinism/global “One World Order” business) — let us divert ourselves one more time from our prime directives and tell it like it is.
A Spanish dancer, a rocket guidance system expert, a missile thrust enthusiast, an Appalachian Trail hiker, a food lover (if not a liver player), a flautist, a Singapore Sling, a duck pond inhabitant, a person of independent means…
The list goes on and on.
We return to the story once again for the very first time, neither handwriting nor typewriting nor electronic interface getting in the way…
The cave stains leaving a mark immemorial…
Silence adds a break in the musical score for emphasis.
PDQ Bach, specifically.
Turning bad dancing into satire for fun’s sake.
In the light of the sun.
On a pretzel bun.
And extra salt.
Wax paper not included.
Rinse and repeat.
If you can follow the words, you’ve arrived here.
If not, avast virus database has been updated.
You are now back at the beginning.
AOL email and Amazon Kindle Singularity subscriptions not included.
Return to your dream, uninterrupted.