The Scream Of The Reader
The demands of others are paramount …
Relentless, they are – in sickness and in health.
Unyielding in their vying for your attention.
Be warned …
Yes! Yes! A story!
A story of infinite glory!
Have you ever met a spineless wonder?
How about a spec of thunder?
“To each his own”, says the needy,
mainly to brave the trickling pity.
But wait for the punchline; it will come in time.
Continue reading
Eat your chocolate 
“I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven’s hand into hell, hell’s eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.”
Who can argue with the ‘big bang’ theory, except perhaps the creationists … or perhaps the creator? Such a discussion would most certainly use, as an analogy, the making of popcorn: a daring activity that is fraught with danger, not just of an ordinary household nature, but of that with planetary wide significance (i.e., ‘BOOM’).
When popping corn in the confines of a kitchen, it’s the random mix of organic and temporal variables that allow corn kernels to ‘pop’ one or a few at a time. However, it should go without saying that with the right alignment of variables, a single ‘super-pop’ might occur in which all kernels will simultaneously explode together.
Given such an event, it is quite possible, under the right cosmogonical circumstances, for such an explosion to actually rip a hole in the fabric of space and time, creating a mini-black hole, which if left unconstrained will turn us, and all manner of creation in this parsec of the universe, inside out.
Now, I don’t confess to be much of a physicist, but to some extent, you can’t get around certain laws of the related science. Most physicists understand that the study of physics, therefore, is not something that should be practiced at home, and is best left to facilities such as the Large Hadron Collider (LHC), where the art of popping corn can be studied in safety.
A Phoenix Imploding
Fanning the flames of a prodigy’s inferno, self-pity looks on as art burns.
Anger consumes reason.
Bitterness ignites the mind-set.
Consumed with the rage over jilted aspirations …
The eye stutters …
The tongue is blind …
Speaking in volumes of disdain, spitting dissension.
Wracked with spasmodic thoughts on unfinished words.
Impotent intentions char on slow burn.
Wisps of smoldering passions dissolve into ‘misforgivings’.
A primal scream of guttural inflammation belches forth raw talent.
“Such a waste” cries a vanishing muse …
Choking on bile …
Lashing out in all directions …
Twisting, jerking, shrieking, mourning the living and grieving over stillborn dreams.
A phoenix imploding.
Why so much anger?
The will to cause such pain.
Too busy blaming ancestral arsonists to reach for a glass of water.
Choosing instead to smother candescence with incendiary fury.
Burn that ‘self-loathing’ down …
……………………………………………………………………
Suggested Viewing
Suggested Reading
“You are a slow learner, Winston.”
“How can I help it? How can I help but see what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four.”
“Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane.”
– George Orwell, 1984
There is a profound children’s book written by Dr. Seuss titled “I Am Not Going To Get Up Today!”. It chronicles a society in shock fuming over a young boy who, upon waking, decides on a whim to stay in bed. He declares, “The alarm can ring. The birds can peep. My bed is warm. My pillow’s deep. Today’s the day I’m going to sleep!”.
The world balks. Incredulously, all manner of creatures, tall and small, come to call. They stare and parrot each other in disbelief. Concerned citizens in the form of friends, family, the authorities and the mainstream media, all flock together to voice their disapproval. Judeo-Christian cum Protestant work ethic laced moral outrage is expressed in response to the boy’s ‘Bohemic’ claims of free-will, “I don’t choose to be up walking. I don’t choose to be up talking. The only thing I’m choosing is to lie here woozy-snoozing.”
The horror of it all! The entire balance of modern of civilization apparently rests on the vagaries of this young boy who on an impulse defies the expectations of society by taking charge of his own destiny.
Musically Yours
There are times when there is vision in the music
… but not when the music itself presents a vision
… or is even visionary itself.
Oh say can’t you see that some chords unravel and some scales are unbalanced?
Have you ever met an arpeggio that unfolded into a non-linear arrangement of an unsequenced rhythm?
I have … and was seduced by it … willingly.
The I In Me They Never Bothered With
They see my gender.
They see my color.
They see the clothes I wear.
But …
They want to know my ‘likes’.
They want to know my contacts.
They want to know my religion.
They want to know my income.
They want to know my sexual preference.
They want to know my political affiliation.
They want to know my citizenship.
They want to know my heritage.
They want to know my family and lineage.
They want to know my genetic code.
They want my body.
They want my soul.
They want my spirit.
They want my blood.
They want my conformity.
But …
They don’t want my mind.
And they never once even ask my name.
Dancing On Broken Toes
How easily do our airy flights of fancy escape the gravity of our mundane lives.
We reach with dreams of fickle laced lightness for that which lies beyond our corporeal grasp.
The ‘what ifs’ come with practice, spring-boarding from disillusion and delusion.
We hang ourselves on a whim, a promise, a commitment … a figment of our imagination.
We dance. Our toes break.
The artist is still a little like the old court jester. He’s supposed to speak his vicious paradoxes with some sense in them, but he isn’t part of whatever the fabric is that makes a nation.
Warning: The following prose makes no sense and has no socially redeeming value. It is not a reflection of anyone and is merely a refraction thereof. Read at your own risk and make of it what you will. Drinks are not on the house.
Some people are forever hell-bent on defying the laws of gravity. Yearning to turn the world on its end, they exhibit a penchant to disengage from the established order of things, the firmament on which lie the foundations of society.
They seem to thrive on chaos, embroiling themselves in one adventure after another. They soar … they crash … they burn … they rise again and fly sideways … smiling.
They are brilliantly stupid. Sublimely ridiculous. They make for perfect nonsense. Don’t question them and you’ll get many answers. They talk too much and say too little, hiding an encyclopedia of intent. And yet, they mystify you with their paradoxical nature. They are train wrecks in slow motion pulling into the station according to their own schedule … right on their own time.
What is the nature of the luxury which enervates and destroys nations?
I lie in the living room, a song in my head. My guitar sits across the room, silently resonating a song from long ago. It yearns for something new. It beckons me to come and create something more than I can, at present. I stare at it with loving disdain, unmoving and unmoved.
Yes, yes, it often seems like the hardest thing to do is that which we know we ought to do but which requires effort: our labors of love so to speak. Due diligence suggests we apply some elbow grease and put our backs into the matter at hand. Conventional wisdom says nothing about waiting for the ‘perfect time’, however.
It comes to pass that we reach a point where we realize we need more, oh so much more, to sustain our passion, enhance our vision, nurture our idealism, and facilitate our expression. At this point, we begin to wrestle with the contention that it’s not enough for us to rest on our hollow laurels or innate talents. And so with reluctance, we knowingly resign ourselves to the reality that we need to transform ourselves in order to thrive. Yet, agreeing in principle is one thing … doing is another.
Loitering Words 