Chaos reins supreme like an angry tyrant seated in his red overstuffed throne wielding a far-reaching and heavy pointed stick! In this episode, our stalwart companion of the slow and meandering cyberstream is assailed by rays from above. Is it a probing Heavenly Intrusion questing discretely to herald the coming of a new age? Mayhaps the evil machinations of a master race of purple pirate space monkeys from beyond Uranus? Or is it merely the dark influences of the half cooked burrito that he purchased at the corner bodega located down the street from where he works. You know, the one that keeps getting closed by the health department! That store that was on the cover of the newspaper last week, with rats the size of small puppies that sit in the deli case and grin at you through the window... that one! I suggest that you soundly grip your armchairs in disbelief and horror and read on, because this one is a clencher!
***
I am not one of those fortunate individuals who works a nice 9 to 5 job with weekends and the occasional Friday off. As well, though I have many years experience at my place of employment, I am not even a day-shifter. Instead, I am one of those sorry, sad individuals that the majority of the populace take some bit of pity on. As they are heading home for the day, looking forward to a nice evening in, I see the looks on their faces. They spot us, as we are just heading off to work but already tired from the day, with nothing to look forward to but 9 hours in a florescent room with no windows. Turn those frowns upside down fellow passers by, your feelings fall on deaf ears and eyes for all is not as it appears. Secretly, I have discovered a masochistic bend in my personality. Most especially, it is all the more apparent since being married. I deserve to suffer. I am the worlds most lowly and humble servant and it is my destiny to tread endlessly. I like to stretch these single night shifts into doubles. If I', lucky, they will last the entire weekend. If the forecast says its going to be a nice day, I immediately begin calling my office to secure those slots that have the greatest probability of maximum sunshineness. Your toil is my foil, my pain, your gain, let me work for you. And what more, let me believe for you.
In those hours, few and far between when I find myself at home and not putting the men into menial, I like to find odds and ends tasks to occupy my rabid slavering brain. Like a dog after a bone, like a snake after its tail, I am my own Ouroboros when not functioning as a public servant of sorts. Just before I leave for work each day, my Herculean list of tasks near completion. brow peppered with sweat, back broken under the whip, I make my way to the mailbox in eager anticipation for letters hidden therein. Perhaps Uncle Sam wishes to enlist me, or an operational error at the electric company has billed me a million dollars in error. The possibilities are far beyond reckoning!
To better salt my quest for treasure, I subscribe to every magazine, mail in every free offer. My junk mail surpasses in a day my regular correspondence for the year. My mailbox is more a mail fortress, a mail citadel - the Fort Know of my block. The local post office reserves my neighborhood exclusively for rookies and temps, unwilling to sacrifice veterans in shouldering the load that is the burden of me. Neither rain nor sleet, dark of night, hateful dog, nor postal patron may slow my carrier, but I will grind him till dust under the weight of advertisements destined for my door.
Today, as I stepped lightly towards the black boxed shrine of deforestation - I was struck by epiphany. Did distant angels blow long horns in triumph? The wind was strong, the September air full of the chill anticipation of winter. And in this chill, the mailbox lid rattled. In all my time here, sequestered in the woods, the mailbox has been too full to close tightly. Today was no exception. Yet in its rattling, I felt something more. The boyscout, tense before the scout master, unraveling the codes of Morse, cried out from within me. What is this, can it be? The randomness of the wind, the chance ray of sun that fell through the clouds and landed upon my head as if a halo from on high. There could be no doubt. A message was hammering itself out, the door of the mailbox against its body, again and again, a message from a far off place.
"You are the one" it intoned, the music of the spheres traveling through space and time to reach my ears with the jarring of the mailbox door. More the sounds of bells now, than a creaking in the wind. Again it spoke to me "You are the one, spread the word, move the people" in Morse code, clear and precise in my mind, the message causing a hearkening back to the rigorous training of my scout days.
Without conscious effort, I found myself on my knees as I gazed up reverently at the mailbox. In response, a very strong gust of wind freed the door finally from its grip, and as the message ended the mailbox opened to offer itself to me. Like manna from heaven, like hosts from a chalice, like snow falling on pure ground, the junk mail began to cascade and gather around me. And like a pulsar ejecting new matter into a young universe, the mail piled high around me, higher than my waist, and more still poured forth. The amount was inconceivable, the process unending - I was the messenger and here was the message. EVERY... SINGLE... PIECE of mail was a solicitation, and all spoke but one word - GIVE!
I though my hands into the air, then I wrenched my palms, I groveled in the sand and dust there. I am unworthy I bemoaned the mailbox. I am an ant. I am the runt, lowly, commonplace below all the other ants. I am the most disdained. I am pariah, untouchable, unheard oft ignored, but I will change all this. As God as my witness I will carry forth the word!
Whether it be the Lord on his high mount, aside Olympian heroes and many armed servants of darkness, or orb carrying round bellied dignified deities or tentacled, antennae, prehensile tailed volcano abusing ice cube soul transforming galaxy travelers, it was not my motivation, my intention to question. My mission was deliverance, my salvation in the trip itself.
I gathered up a double handful of the junk mail and rushed to my car. Into the city must go you the many pieces of mail did cry. And like a flagellate, like a horse haired shirt, mountain climbing mystic, the paper envelopes did cut and abrade my flesh, chastising the messenger, keeping his pride in check while his soul did soar on wings like those, but less than, those of the angels in whose company he found himself. And into the city, now transformed like Babylon did I sojourn. Upon arrival there, I found the largest square to be found and parked where I could most block all others from passing so as best to spread the word. I threw the doors to my car open, but as much as I threw them open, so eager was the word to be spread that the doors threw themselves open and out poured a forest, a river of paper. For my double handful of mail that I had brought into the car had grown, like loaves and fishes it did pour forth, swallowing the men and women immediately around me who sought to distract and apprehend this messenger on his mission. Men and women in uniforms, red and blue swept away, an undertow of great wrath pushing away the non-believers, dragging them down, but raising and holding afloat all who embraced the message. Give, give, buy, buy, buy. Give all that you have. Work hard. Buy everything you can. If you don't have one, then you need one. If there is anything left over after you get one then give to those who don't yet have one, so they too can get one.
No more did anyone stand around me, we were all afloat. The great wave spread out from its point of origin. I, a mere vessel, was flooded with the light of accomplishment as the tidal wave of mail rode down the unwary and carried them along, consuming and transforming non-believer into prophet, tree into pulp, pulp into paper, paper into junk mail, and junk mail into hymnal. And after a time, my surroundings white, in the bleached, sterile world of the word, there was a growing silence. Emptied of energy, all the converts turned internally to reflect on the message that still ebbed and flowed around them. Was this it then, had my journey ended? Was the fruition of my mission in this moment?
Nay, reader. I shake my finger at you for even pausing to question. For even as I did so, did there appear before me yet another vision. A man, bearded, ancient beyond the walls of time, did walk atop the floods of paper, as a man walking on water, and did stop before me.
He eyes were serene. In them I did see accomplishments, as if a pebble dropped into a deep pool. The message rippled outward from them, reaching ever further, enveloping all, soundlessly, seamlessly, in serenity.
My work here, I ask, is it done then.
The man smiled, no my son. Your work is a lifetime of work. I come before you not to have you make pause, but to ponder. As the message you carry is tainted, as if heard only through one ear.
This then, is not what I was to accomplish, I asked, my arms waving round me at the ocean of white, papers upon papers, still cascading outward as I gestured, the entire population of New York City like flies to sticky paper within its confines.
Your journey must transcend the physical and embrace the intellectual. Join me son, step outside of your element, the box that you are in, hasten yourself from it.
Think outside of it I asked?
If you must limit yourself with such a mundane description as that, then yes he said, think outside of it. But do more than that. What I ask of you might not be attainable in words, because the thought it needs to encompass is more eastern then western, more left than right. I ask you to contemplate things for which western society may have no vocabulary, as the descriptions for intangibles such as these cannot find root in a language so caught up in the physicality's of existence.
Huh? I responded, my eloquence now fleeting like a shooting star.
If I said to you, the great, astonishing bearded man spoke, that your pufrot could no longer quibble in harmonious union with the pufrot of your fellow fellows, would that resound soundly in your fabblefou as it should, or would it fall upon deaf ears?
My ears it seems are no longer deaf, but perhaps more befuddled than before. Have I suffered some sort of mental incapacitation this day. Am I indeed the one that flew over the cuckoo's nest, or merely an observer of the bird that made such a journey?
If, the man said, if I must state it in such a way do that you are most able to absorb the impact of my words, then let me say this, I need you to think outside the box that is outside the box you think you are stepping from!
Then, I begged, do I need to be the bird high above the bird being observed flying over the cuckoos nest?
You are the shadow of the cloud that falls on the bird, above the bird, and the observer of the bird, and the nest, and everything around it. And you are as much the molecules in the soul of the worm in the stomach of the bird, as you are the echo of the cry that escapes the birds mouth as it falls dying from the sky, having flown over the cuckoos nest and into the 4th story window of the skyscraper next door.
Then the man laid his hand upon my head and said rise, rise my son, the child of my mind and tell all!
I leapt to my feet, my spirit souring, my soul and body light.
Speak. Set free the true wave of understanding the man prompted!
It was not the mailbox that spoke this morning I shouted to the crowd, but my inner pain instead, echoed in the form of the mailbox!
Good, go on the man prompted.
The apparent appearance of the ever expanding wave of mail, was in fact a psychotic break that only seemed to manifest as a literal physical translation of my emotional and intellectual expansion of my mind. Indeed, it was a cry for help from my unconsciousness after the near breakdown of my exhausted and fatigued, and overworked body.
Well, you're kind of drifting there son, lets rain it in a little. He chimed.
What I took to be God in Heaven, Aliens in their hovering spaceships, Angry Kali and reticent Buddha were indeed indigestion, sleep deprivation, dehydration and gas.
No, hold on there, the old man said stepping forward.
All religions are basically the same in that at their utmost fundamental levels they attempt to deliver a message of peace and unity, sameness in our disparity and a greater need for understanding and a more fundamental willingness to listen to our fellow man.
No, the old man bellowed.
In fact, I continued, one might go so far as to say that the great texts by which we live our lives are truly only allegorical, to be used as a guide, a reference, and that any attempt to translate them literally is in fact only an act of farce on the part of the translator.
No, I said No, again bellowed the old man as he stepped forward and put his hand over my mouth. Rather than attempt to breathe through the rather odorous sweat of his palm however, I felt inclined to pause at that time.
When he removed his hand, I asked inquiringly - No?
No, said the old man. No, no , no.
Around me the crowd surged, and several called out - tell us, show us the way.
The old man again raised his hands above the crowd simultaneously silencing them and moving them as one to be seated. Then he turned to me.
My son, my precious child., allow me to explain. It WAS in fact Alien, physical and metaphysical gods of Scientific, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, and a panoply of other religions that trained their communicator ray on your mailbox to deliver their profound message to you this day. They indeed want you to spread the word.
The bible, and all the books of all religions are in fact to be treated as literal truths, especially when they further the motives, motivations and interests of your government. Everyone is right, and everyone has the right to treat you badly if in any way you disagree with their perspective or opinion. Do not question religion, do not question government. Do as you are told and work hard for the man, and there will be pie in the sky when you die!
I am even more confused now then when we began I replied. What was I to see when I stepped outside of the box, what great truth?
This, my son, the wise man said, his arms enveloping all the paper that has swept over and buried those around us. This, this is the great truth. This profound wastefulness is what you needed to open your eyes to.
What then, I asked, lost, what then, and how then should I have spread my message?
Again he strode forward and put his hand on my forehead, as I kneeled before him, a penitent awaiting the truth.
His eyes were filled with love, and his word was love. The Internet, my naive child. Use the Internet. Email is the cheapest and most effective method for reaching the most people the most quickly. Spam, and spam again. And don't forget, and this is so very important, make sure to use a header that will attract their attention!
Peace, enlightenment, truth, answers, I sputtered?
He laughed then, and smiled. It was radiant, it was a rainbow of light. My innocent child, don't be silly, those are not the things we need. Everyone, all of you, stand now he shouted.
Everyone did in unison, we were all on our feet.
Repeat after me, the quickest way to reach the most people. You must include in your header
Nude Aliens, Free Viagra, Necrotizing Fasciitis , Paris Hilton videos & common cold viruses that turn everyone into Gorgeous Lesbians.
Spread the word children, spread it.
And we all rushed forth............
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Thursday, September 13, 2007
A BOY AND HIS BLOG
In this installment, our hero attains enlightenment via an unlikely Spirit Guide on the streets of NYC, whilst munching on a dirty-water dog and contemplating existence as seen through his belly button. Those who can peer round the lint therein are more than welcome to join him on his harrowing but ultimately life affirming journey...
***
As an aside, if you can draw - I have a project for someone. Some years ago I wrote a mini-comic script about a man who decides to create artificial life. First he collects his belly lint, the flecks of skin from between his toes, the stuff that falls out from the keyboard of his computer when he strikes it repeatedly and some agar in a petri dish and mixes everything together with a pencil that he had habitually used to clean his ears. He then secrets the whole thing in a crevice on the lowest, hottest, dampest part of the 34th street subway station. Upon examination a couple days later, when he finally hazards a look, there is a small bump in the agar. The day after that, the bump has tentacles. Two days after that, the dish is empty. Shortly thereafter, first rodents and then people begin to become scarce in the vicinity of the station - and subway riders traveling through it begin to report strange noises, smells, and sights. In other words, same ol' story. Artists, feel free to send samples.
***
There is an episode of The Simpsons where Homer is confronted by a Spirit Guide, in the form of a coyote. The coyote is voiced by Johnny Cash. For purists, we're talking about "The Mysterious Voyage of Homer" Episode 3F24. At one point, the coyote warns Homer that he must calm his inner chaos, as his mind is going "a mile a minute". The scene cuts back to a shot of Homer as the wind blows through his hair, a truly blank look on his face. It is almost as if the wind is moving THROUGH his ears.
On CNN this evening, and thank you again CNN for your decision to loop the same news ALL NIGHT LONG - George Bush, with a remarkably similar look on his face, is discussing future strategies in IRAQ.
I have an exercise for you dear reader. Don't worry, it doesn't involve physical activity. Although I myself have been known to take long walks with the wife and munchkin in tow, I will forgo in these pages recommending that others do likewise. Those people who are most long lived, irregardless of genetic preinclination - are those who put themselves through rigorous physical activity at least 3 times a week. We all know this to be a fact. If we choose to ignore it, we do so at our own peril. Oh, and drink more orange juice, at least one large glass a day. We make most vitamins, but not Vitamin C. It is ESSENTIAL to our well being. I mean that - essential!
So, back to task. Take some black construction paper and cut out a small silhouette of yourself and a loved one, friend, family member, pet, or a favorite celebrity whose name begins with the letter B or L or P. Then tape them to the bottom of your television Ala MST3K. Turn off the sound on the television. It is your job to put words in the President's mouth. You get a gold star for effort if you do so while eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Remember, more than 2 syllables is forbidden. You get extra points if you reference God, Florida, your brother, your father, or brand name undergarments with superior absorbency. Never play this game alone, always do so with a partner. One should be the voice of Elmer Fudd, the other is that Waskily Wabbit, or Beaker from the Muppets, you can decide. If you have a rubber nose to wear, Beaker counts double.
Several hours ago I was thinking about The Simpson's Spirit Guide episode while wandering the streets of New York on my lunch break. If you are a Cash fan, definitely play the episode in your head to the tune of "Ring of Fire" or "When the Man Comes Around". I stopped at a great used bookstore in Midtown Manhattan called Book*Off on 41st street between Fifth and Madison. For those who find themselves near Bryant Park and the Public Library, whether on excursions for dime bags, bum tipping or higher learning - I highly recommend ducking in for a few minutes as they have a row of a couple thousand books priced at only $1.00 each. Today's big find was a 1st Edition of George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones - now available for bidding on eBay at drawn2distraction. Although I'm a huge fan of The Housing Works thrift store and The Strand, their locations far downtown limit accessibility during a 30 minute lunch if you work above 14th street.
Working through the stacks, looking for leisure reading, Cash's Spirit Guide in the front of my mind, one of the first books I stumbled across was COYOTE by Catherine Reid. Sensing the passing fancies of Karma, I broke out a Washington, both dollar and dime, damn tax, and carried the volume out the door with me. The book chronicles the intelligence of the Eastern Coyote. Not quite its Western counterpart, being both Coyote and a bit of Wolf, this whimsical creature is reasserting itself in New England and along the coast, pushing into territories it has never before occupied. What territories have I never before occupied? That sounds more a question to be posed by single young college bound farm boys writing into the letter columns of men's magazines. Dear Penthouse Forum, let me tell you a tale of territories occupied this last weekend. Irregardless, if Karma was calling, I wasn't in any position to answer if this book was to serve as my I Ching. If my spirit animal were to put in an appearance, it would probably be somewhat more inconspicuous. My wife found a mole the other day in the garden and proceeded to take an hour to find a safe place to leave it again, ever fearful of patrolling predators on the lookout for quick morsels! Have I mentioned how large the Pennsylvania brand of Turkey Vultures get? If I was a mole I'd be wary of daytime travel. Oh Spirit Guide, introspective mole, what words of wisdom can you extol for today?
"Bright Light, bright light", said the small mole! "I have my eyes closed against it, but still it shines through!"
"Should I fear the light then?" I replied? "Make a life in the darkness, in the shadows? What evil lurks in the heart's of men?"
"Indeed" said my diminutive guide. "Avoid as well; water at all costs, and eating after midnight. Not only can it lead to gastronomic disarray, but sudden changes can occur!"
"Rapid weight gain?" I inquired.
"That and worse" The mole replied. "You might become an all new animal all together."
That comment reminded me of a favorite childhood book, "The Monster's Ring", and as well, some recollection of a favorite childhood film.
* Just a quick recommendation here for Monster's Ring by Bruce Coville. Reading is fundamental people!
"No bright light, water or late-night meals - eh?" I inquired.
"True, so true" said my furry friend.
Alas, it occurs to me that my spirit guide is not the mole my wife unearthed, but the Mogwai from the movie "Gremlins".
"And what might you be doing in my neck of the woods" I queried?
"Have you seen all the recent remakes?" He replied. "I mean, if "Halloween" can get made again, why not me, or "E.T"? Imagine what Peter Jackson could do to me for $100 Million Dollars with his special effects team. Imagine the site of 10,000 Mogwai streaming down a hillside."
"Mega-Mogwai vs Godzilla. Or, possibly to do battle with light sabers against Stripe and his ilk"? I inquired?
"Lets not go that far" the diminutive fellow responded. "But next time you find yourself sitting across the table from bigwig studio executives, calm your mind of its ceaseless chattering with a thousand thoughts a minute and heed my words!"
"And those words are?"
"Furry animals were once box office gold and we will be again!"
And with that, the Once and Future King slowly faded away.
With great reflection I see now that my Spirit Guide had put in an appearance to warn against the approaching dawn, and the dangers of staying up all night. Be that whether or not due to chasing the written word, or exploring unoccupied territories, or even one cup too many of java after 6pm - his message has been heard and I heed the call of bed.
***
As an aside, if you can draw - I have a project for someone. Some years ago I wrote a mini-comic script about a man who decides to create artificial life. First he collects his belly lint, the flecks of skin from between his toes, the stuff that falls out from the keyboard of his computer when he strikes it repeatedly and some agar in a petri dish and mixes everything together with a pencil that he had habitually used to clean his ears. He then secrets the whole thing in a crevice on the lowest, hottest, dampest part of the 34th street subway station. Upon examination a couple days later, when he finally hazards a look, there is a small bump in the agar. The day after that, the bump has tentacles. Two days after that, the dish is empty. Shortly thereafter, first rodents and then people begin to become scarce in the vicinity of the station - and subway riders traveling through it begin to report strange noises, smells, and sights. In other words, same ol' story. Artists, feel free to send samples.
***
There is an episode of The Simpsons where Homer is confronted by a Spirit Guide, in the form of a coyote. The coyote is voiced by Johnny Cash. For purists, we're talking about "The Mysterious Voyage of Homer" Episode 3F24. At one point, the coyote warns Homer that he must calm his inner chaos, as his mind is going "a mile a minute". The scene cuts back to a shot of Homer as the wind blows through his hair, a truly blank look on his face. It is almost as if the wind is moving THROUGH his ears.
On CNN this evening, and thank you again CNN for your decision to loop the same news ALL NIGHT LONG - George Bush, with a remarkably similar look on his face, is discussing future strategies in IRAQ.
I have an exercise for you dear reader. Don't worry, it doesn't involve physical activity. Although I myself have been known to take long walks with the wife and munchkin in tow, I will forgo in these pages recommending that others do likewise. Those people who are most long lived, irregardless of genetic preinclination - are those who put themselves through rigorous physical activity at least 3 times a week. We all know this to be a fact. If we choose to ignore it, we do so at our own peril. Oh, and drink more orange juice, at least one large glass a day. We make most vitamins, but not Vitamin C. It is ESSENTIAL to our well being. I mean that - essential!
So, back to task. Take some black construction paper and cut out a small silhouette of yourself and a loved one, friend, family member, pet, or a favorite celebrity whose name begins with the letter B or L or P. Then tape them to the bottom of your television Ala MST3K. Turn off the sound on the television. It is your job to put words in the President's mouth. You get a gold star for effort if you do so while eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich. Remember, more than 2 syllables is forbidden. You get extra points if you reference God, Florida, your brother, your father, or brand name undergarments with superior absorbency. Never play this game alone, always do so with a partner. One should be the voice of Elmer Fudd, the other is that Waskily Wabbit, or Beaker from the Muppets, you can decide. If you have a rubber nose to wear, Beaker counts double.
Several hours ago I was thinking about The Simpson's Spirit Guide episode while wandering the streets of New York on my lunch break. If you are a Cash fan, definitely play the episode in your head to the tune of "Ring of Fire" or "When the Man Comes Around". I stopped at a great used bookstore in Midtown Manhattan called Book*Off on 41st street between Fifth and Madison. For those who find themselves near Bryant Park and the Public Library, whether on excursions for dime bags, bum tipping or higher learning - I highly recommend ducking in for a few minutes as they have a row of a couple thousand books priced at only $1.00 each. Today's big find was a 1st Edition of George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones - now available for bidding on eBay at drawn2distraction. Although I'm a huge fan of The Housing Works thrift store and The Strand, their locations far downtown limit accessibility during a 30 minute lunch if you work above 14th street.
Working through the stacks, looking for leisure reading, Cash's Spirit Guide in the front of my mind, one of the first books I stumbled across was COYOTE by Catherine Reid. Sensing the passing fancies of Karma, I broke out a Washington, both dollar and dime, damn tax, and carried the volume out the door with me. The book chronicles the intelligence of the Eastern Coyote. Not quite its Western counterpart, being both Coyote and a bit of Wolf, this whimsical creature is reasserting itself in New England and along the coast, pushing into territories it has never before occupied. What territories have I never before occupied? That sounds more a question to be posed by single young college bound farm boys writing into the letter columns of men's magazines. Dear Penthouse Forum, let me tell you a tale of territories occupied this last weekend. Irregardless, if Karma was calling, I wasn't in any position to answer if this book was to serve as my I Ching. If my spirit animal were to put in an appearance, it would probably be somewhat more inconspicuous. My wife found a mole the other day in the garden and proceeded to take an hour to find a safe place to leave it again, ever fearful of patrolling predators on the lookout for quick morsels! Have I mentioned how large the Pennsylvania brand of Turkey Vultures get? If I was a mole I'd be wary of daytime travel. Oh Spirit Guide, introspective mole, what words of wisdom can you extol for today?
"Bright Light, bright light", said the small mole! "I have my eyes closed against it, but still it shines through!"
"Should I fear the light then?" I replied? "Make a life in the darkness, in the shadows? What evil lurks in the heart's of men?"
"Indeed" said my diminutive guide. "Avoid as well; water at all costs, and eating after midnight. Not only can it lead to gastronomic disarray, but sudden changes can occur!"
"Rapid weight gain?" I inquired.
"That and worse" The mole replied. "You might become an all new animal all together."
That comment reminded me of a favorite childhood book, "The Monster's Ring", and as well, some recollection of a favorite childhood film.
* Just a quick recommendation here for Monster's Ring by Bruce Coville. Reading is fundamental people!
"No bright light, water or late-night meals - eh?" I inquired.
"True, so true" said my furry friend.
Alas, it occurs to me that my spirit guide is not the mole my wife unearthed, but the Mogwai from the movie "Gremlins".
"And what might you be doing in my neck of the woods" I queried?
"Have you seen all the recent remakes?" He replied. "I mean, if "Halloween" can get made again, why not me, or "E.T"? Imagine what Peter Jackson could do to me for $100 Million Dollars with his special effects team. Imagine the site of 10,000 Mogwai streaming down a hillside."
"Mega-Mogwai vs Godzilla. Or, possibly to do battle with light sabers against Stripe and his ilk"? I inquired?
"Lets not go that far" the diminutive fellow responded. "But next time you find yourself sitting across the table from bigwig studio executives, calm your mind of its ceaseless chattering with a thousand thoughts a minute and heed my words!"
"And those words are?"
"Furry animals were once box office gold and we will be again!"
And with that, the Once and Future King slowly faded away.
With great reflection I see now that my Spirit Guide had put in an appearance to warn against the approaching dawn, and the dangers of staying up all night. Be that whether or not due to chasing the written word, or exploring unoccupied territories, or even one cup too many of java after 6pm - his message has been heard and I heed the call of bed.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
A POTTED PLANT FULL OF COFFEE GROUNDS...
In this installment, our hero delves deep into the already dark and introspective psyche of the self-involved writer. For what reason? To what end, Grasshopper? Read on brave traveler and find out!
***
What do writers with writer's block ponder on their blogs? Is there method to madness, or merely more madness? Merely More Madness - I love that title. Patent pending, patent pending. A writer writes. Publish or perish! Well friend, perhaps perish, then publish is the thought for the day, our call to arms! As you stand before Burning Man and watch as his limbs fall away and soot blows out into the desert, imagine it is your responsibility to edit the running dialog of your own life. From the 50 pages of conversation and inner contemplation that is TODAY, chop away, hack at the undergrowth, and resurrect if you can those words to the wise! Generally left with more questions than answers, we putter about in vain attempts to get the juices flowing, constantly overwhelmed by intellectual constipation. Where is my bran muffin for the mind? In what supermarket isle do I find prunes for the intellectual palette? Is there a coupon in the local shopper for a discount on that particular item?
From my own experience I would think it must be something of a chaotic inner dialog, with too much caffeine and too little exercise, eyeballs composed of grapes, and eyelids of rough sandpaper. Every blink is agony.
It could go something like this... Had cup of coffee this morning. Took it with me when I went out to walk the dog. Saw something strange in the neighbors garbage can. There was no one around so I thought I should probably take a look. You know, in case they were doing something illegal. Could have been a meth lab in there, maybe aliens had taken roost... who knows these things? Rooted around in there for awhile. Have never seen so many empty tubes of Preparation H. What the hell? Not enough bran, or perhaps some weird fetish, can you get high off the stuff? Does anyone even use the word perhaps anymore? How non-committal can one get? The dog got anxious standing there, leaning from side to side on her leash, the ground nearby totally sniffed out of mystery. Lions in the zoo pace until their brains reform in schizophrenic patterns. Will my dog go nuts if I provide her with too little sensory stimulation? Is it time for a different colored chew toy? Perhaps the blaze orange one? Eventually, inspired, she moved around to the far side of the garbage can and first urinated on it and then left a little steaming dairy queen as well. That's what my little niece calls them... dairy queens. Remember, use lower case, we don't want any copyright infringements. The largest dairy queen I ever gifted the world with, was following the consumption of 8 ounces of sharp Cheddar, the crackers that went with it, a 1.5 liter bottle of port, tawny, and then a pot of coffee the next morning. 15 minutes after finishing up the coffee, my body decided that as it wasn't able to molt to somehow step out of the collected poisons, it would instead evacuate the entire contents of my frame that weren't held in place by rigid bits of flesh. Turned out all the fuss was about a potted plant full of coffee grounds. How did that happen?
Reminds me of my childhood as a nightcrawler farmer. 10 gallon fish tank in the basement full of dirt and worms. Nightcrawlers love coffee grounds. Good name for a children's book there, need to call my agent when I get home. NIGHTCRAWLERS LOVE COFFEE GROUNDS. Its inspiring, really. Nightcrawlers, rooting around in the dark, long hours, low pay. It makes sense that a mouthful of coffee grounds would go a long way, especially at 3am and the world is asleep and all you want is one mouthful of dirt that hasn't been eaten and pooped out a hundred thousand times before you, by all your parents parents, and all their grandparents parents. When people breathe, each breathe takes i the flavors of 6 billion others. They say when you take a mouthful of water, that its not unusual for some portion of it to be 10,000 years old, once having been frost nestled against a woolly mammoth on a glacier, a thousand miles north of its present position - in your mouth. True too, for dirt, mud, sand, clay. We could not plant crops if not for nightcrawlers. Every mouthful they take having been consumed and ejected by their ancestors, down through the eons, ever since the fateful day the first nightcrawler leaned down and pondered the question of what that dirt must taste like. I myself don't recall. My son is the right age to ask, if he was more into full words. Perhaps he would say: yes papa, that's good eating.
NIGHTCRAWLERS LOVE COFFEE GROUNDS, because well, lets face it, what the hell else are you going to do when you are a worm? Wait for the world to fall over and rot? Poke out of apples and give people the finger as they bite down on your butt? Wait until the next rainstorm and shimmy to the surface, there to engage in every manner of sordid slimy procreation you can possibly envision. Make hay while the sun shines, make worms while the rain pours! Give me my two mouthfuls of coffee grounds and I"ll crawl back under the porch to continue to work my way through Fluffy, the ferret you accidentally killed at the age of six, because you cared for it so much you unintentionally hugged it to death!
No, really now - when your mind is on overdrive, mile-a-minute kind of stuff yet somehow the physical act of sitting down and putting words to paper and/or screen is an impossibility, where does all that work go? When I am through thinking these thoughts (tongue twister anyone) where do my thunk thoughts go? A true point to ponder there, boys and girls. I think those ideas, concepts, turns of phrase, generalizations, feelings, stream into the collective unconsciousness to lie in wait, for some unsuspecting individual to wander along and trip over them. Only then, dear reader to reassemble your unused mental machinations into the next big thing to sell on a home shopping show. I'll tackle the Collective Unconscious, Einstein and Vitamin C next, I should think.
***
What do writers with writer's block ponder on their blogs? Is there method to madness, or merely more madness? Merely More Madness - I love that title. Patent pending, patent pending. A writer writes. Publish or perish! Well friend, perhaps perish, then publish is the thought for the day, our call to arms! As you stand before Burning Man and watch as his limbs fall away and soot blows out into the desert, imagine it is your responsibility to edit the running dialog of your own life. From the 50 pages of conversation and inner contemplation that is TODAY, chop away, hack at the undergrowth, and resurrect if you can those words to the wise! Generally left with more questions than answers, we putter about in vain attempts to get the juices flowing, constantly overwhelmed by intellectual constipation. Where is my bran muffin for the mind? In what supermarket isle do I find prunes for the intellectual palette? Is there a coupon in the local shopper for a discount on that particular item?
From my own experience I would think it must be something of a chaotic inner dialog, with too much caffeine and too little exercise, eyeballs composed of grapes, and eyelids of rough sandpaper. Every blink is agony.
It could go something like this... Had cup of coffee this morning. Took it with me when I went out to walk the dog. Saw something strange in the neighbors garbage can. There was no one around so I thought I should probably take a look. You know, in case they were doing something illegal. Could have been a meth lab in there, maybe aliens had taken roost... who knows these things? Rooted around in there for awhile. Have never seen so many empty tubes of Preparation H. What the hell? Not enough bran, or perhaps some weird fetish, can you get high off the stuff? Does anyone even use the word perhaps anymore? How non-committal can one get? The dog got anxious standing there, leaning from side to side on her leash, the ground nearby totally sniffed out of mystery. Lions in the zoo pace until their brains reform in schizophrenic patterns. Will my dog go nuts if I provide her with too little sensory stimulation? Is it time for a different colored chew toy? Perhaps the blaze orange one? Eventually, inspired, she moved around to the far side of the garbage can and first urinated on it and then left a little steaming dairy queen as well. That's what my little niece calls them... dairy queens. Remember, use lower case, we don't want any copyright infringements. The largest dairy queen I ever gifted the world with, was following the consumption of 8 ounces of sharp Cheddar, the crackers that went with it, a 1.5 liter bottle of port, tawny, and then a pot of coffee the next morning. 15 minutes after finishing up the coffee, my body decided that as it wasn't able to molt to somehow step out of the collected poisons, it would instead evacuate the entire contents of my frame that weren't held in place by rigid bits of flesh. Turned out all the fuss was about a potted plant full of coffee grounds. How did that happen?
Reminds me of my childhood as a nightcrawler farmer. 10 gallon fish tank in the basement full of dirt and worms. Nightcrawlers love coffee grounds. Good name for a children's book there, need to call my agent when I get home. NIGHTCRAWLERS LOVE COFFEE GROUNDS. Its inspiring, really. Nightcrawlers, rooting around in the dark, long hours, low pay. It makes sense that a mouthful of coffee grounds would go a long way, especially at 3am and the world is asleep and all you want is one mouthful of dirt that hasn't been eaten and pooped out a hundred thousand times before you, by all your parents parents, and all their grandparents parents. When people breathe, each breathe takes i the flavors of 6 billion others. They say when you take a mouthful of water, that its not unusual for some portion of it to be 10,000 years old, once having been frost nestled against a woolly mammoth on a glacier, a thousand miles north of its present position - in your mouth. True too, for dirt, mud, sand, clay. We could not plant crops if not for nightcrawlers. Every mouthful they take having been consumed and ejected by their ancestors, down through the eons, ever since the fateful day the first nightcrawler leaned down and pondered the question of what that dirt must taste like. I myself don't recall. My son is the right age to ask, if he was more into full words. Perhaps he would say: yes papa, that's good eating.
NIGHTCRAWLERS LOVE COFFEE GROUNDS, because well, lets face it, what the hell else are you going to do when you are a worm? Wait for the world to fall over and rot? Poke out of apples and give people the finger as they bite down on your butt? Wait until the next rainstorm and shimmy to the surface, there to engage in every manner of sordid slimy procreation you can possibly envision. Make hay while the sun shines, make worms while the rain pours! Give me my two mouthfuls of coffee grounds and I"ll crawl back under the porch to continue to work my way through Fluffy, the ferret you accidentally killed at the age of six, because you cared for it so much you unintentionally hugged it to death!
No, really now - when your mind is on overdrive, mile-a-minute kind of stuff yet somehow the physical act of sitting down and putting words to paper and/or screen is an impossibility, where does all that work go? When I am through thinking these thoughts (tongue twister anyone) where do my thunk thoughts go? A true point to ponder there, boys and girls. I think those ideas, concepts, turns of phrase, generalizations, feelings, stream into the collective unconsciousness to lie in wait, for some unsuspecting individual to wander along and trip over them. Only then, dear reader to reassemble your unused mental machinations into the next big thing to sell on a home shopping show. I'll tackle the Collective Unconscious, Einstein and Vitamin C next, I should think.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)