Barter Town

Throw us an offer. We can't refuse.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Mind's Made Up

I decided on a course of action while sitting here, the everglades crooning their everlasting song every minute of the day just a skip behind me.
Oh, please, do tell.
I'm not going to try and pull the wool over the eyes of you viewers for any longer.
Well, anybody who was actually -watching- would have realized by now that you aren't all together in that stubborn lil' noggin of yours.
From the beginning, from the first moment I rolled my fingers across this keyboard and began hurling these hurried, concentrated, staccato messages into the unending sea of Internet, wrapped up and stuffed into little bottles of what the world at large calls "blog", I never strove to prove anything to anyone. Never tried to parade myself out as the forefront, as the focal point of this wild venture, this foray into the hip-hop dynamic with which I so romantically sympathize and with which I so whole-heartily appreciate. I just longed to express my feelings about the life style I loved, you know? To really aggregate those emotions into a singular form of expression and raise it as a shrine to something I felt (and still feel) didn't ever receive enough respect. For a moment, I did accomplish what I penned after. Then this began. The edifice appeared, and made a fuss, and went away. And now I can't shake the feeling that, just a skip and a hop and a little bop beyond the front door that is staring directly at my back, there lies a hidden bounty that will resolve all of these issues and put all my leftover concerns to rest.
Curiosity piqued, I see.
You could say that I wish for a change of pace. A revival, if you will, of those old times not too finely aged. A few weeks ago, I stormed the front of an industrial meat-packaging facility and routed a division of Dimlight's most unscrupulous, snide, haughty head honchos, driving them back into the shadowy corners from which they slinked out from to devise and deliver their undoubtedly evil machinations to the destitute and disenfranchised. Now I sit here, stretched out across my bold black comfy chair, languid as a sloth slumped over a tree branch, and I keep hearing the cries, the howls, the bays, the croaks of the animals populating that vast, dilapidated forest, covered in kudzu and tarnished by chemical dumps, and I feel goosebumps zip across the side of my arm, signals from a wonderful lady who always loved a thorough tromp through the tree tops. Hints from Lucy. Lucy...
Why stick around, then? Adventure begs for you to embark into the undergrowth.
Lucy. Lucky luscious Lucy. Never understood you, bub. Really, I tried to, I tried with all my might to morph my mentality to fit in with your world view, but there couldn't be room for two, I suppose. You always accommodated my presence, of course, and I legitimately believe that deep down below all of our disparities, you looked at me in a more insightful way than you looked at others, more thoughtfully than your usually bizarre, and undeniably attractive fashion of coping with us plebeians. But every morning, I'd turn around and see you standing up and gazing out towards that ephemeral, sparkling mist amiably twirling across the top of the forest outside our window, and I would feel speechless, not only as a consequence of your beautiful figure, but because of the majesty of your posture, the power in your stance, and the pure force behind your existence. Would not any man relinquish his soul to experience such an integral, human feeling, even if only in the periphery of its awe-inspiring ripples and reverberations? To think every morning, you bathed me in such radiance.
To think that you shoved it away when your heart could not tame her pressure.
How did she expect me to cope? By simply sitting there and washing away in her almighty glory? No, not I! I took it upon myself to strike out and build my own reputation after her...departure, to construct a framework fit to assemble a man of mythical caliber, a hero fastened from the deepest reserves of mental imagery fueling the global unconsciousness, able to appeal to any and all comers who dared questioning his integrity. And to think, how close I came to achieving such a feat! My masterwork in motion - the me as the I at last!
And she ruined it all again, didn't she?
It failed, this endeavor of mine. That is not to say all this went for naught - I did reach my goal, and I did transform into something beyond the pale of her shine. She never ruined me...she ruined I. But I is gone. I only exists now as a feeble, pathetic crutch of a fellow who lapped up her rays and never sought his own to fling out across the populace, the proletariat. He never gave himself power, only siphoned it from others.
How else does one gain power, Michael? 
This is all a bit rambling, no? I'm sorry for the tangent. I'm typing this on the fly, with time weighing heavily upon my conscious mind, because I must properly build your anticipation for this extravagant reveal before I take my appropriately dramatic leave. You see, the forest's siren is irresistible. My bones already ache to move, to rush out the door, down the dirt path, right into the forest's shady underbelly without a moment's hesitation. What else am I doing by sitting here, clacking out these cute phrases and rhetorical assaults upon your mind's eye? Why do I simply seem to spew out these sayings, these dexterous comments concerning all of nature and all of man, as if methodically engineered to speak my mind?
You sound so sure it is -your- mind that you speak for, Mr. Blightwell.
The deciduous plants hold those answers engraved deep in their bark, I am sure. There is no avoiding it - I must enter the abode of the wolf, the goat, and the doe tonight, or risk losing my soul to destiny's fickle strings.
I'm glad you've come around, Michael. Our chats these last few days must have -truly- enlightened your clouded psyche.
Adios, mis amigos. Enjoy yourself at the party. We've got some old friends waiting.

3 comments:

  1. Oh damn it Snore, highlight the text!

    Crap.

    ReplyDelete
  2. HELLO, YOU'VE REACHED THE VOICE MAILBOX FOR: Michael Blightwell. TO LEAVE A VOICE MAIL, PRESS 1, OR JUST WAIT FOR THE TBZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

    ReplyDelete
  3. "ZZZ" like snoring. Ha. Or maybe I'm reading too far into it. I do that a lot.

    Ugh. Good luck, I s'pose.

    ReplyDelete