*** the end of a story... scroll down and read the other parts first ***
From the darkness of the doorway jutted shimmering feelers, poking the shadows with their glistening and strangely familiar contours. A quartet of eyes followed their bobbing.
One pair of peepers flickered lids from the floor, peering out of the darkest of corners at the miraculous parade. Fractured beams of moonlight bounced awry into nothingness, and Dirvin's eyes followed.
Roger, on the other hand, thought about the Wizard of Oz and Dorothy's ruby slippers. Afraid to settle his gaze upon his gorgeous reclamation shivering in the blackness, he focused on his bestowal. Rolled by his own pearled waves for three weeks before tumbling up the beach sands, the long loafers gained a shine reminiscent of the fabled shoes that delivered a little girl from Kansas home. His extended arms held them as steady as any brave man could.
Dirvin lifted his palms toward the huge fingers that held his treasured shoes. Roger lifted his gaze to the apprehensive face and hesitated. In one fluid motion, he released the flippers and snatched at his back pocket. Pitted rubber soles were snatched in eager grasp as Dirvin pulled his slippers close to his chest. Roger brought down his gripped fists and tried to look away.
On the beach, sticky sea bubbles refused to pop on the pointed rocks.
*****
The little town of Kennebunk hadn't felt the same since the storm had swept away a small part of their soil. Everyone's shoes were heavier, and their coffee was too bitter. Conversation at Estelle's was mostly shoe shuffling and the clinking of flatware on porcelain.
The memorial was placed near the jagged cliff where a shack used to lean. An enormous curled "C" dominated the horizon, followed by "arnation". The recession had left no extraneous funds for attractions unvisited by tourists, and so Nestle donated a left over crate to pay tribute.
Moving at astonishing speed for bureaucracy, the crate was condemned as an eyesore and a hazard to the greater public. Attending it's hasty removal, Clem Silter bounced an abrasive cast iron hook in his thickly calloused hand and studied the timber box for a proper anchor point. The crude, heavy claw made a muffled thud as it hit the sod, slipping from the suddenly frozen fingers that had bounced it.
From a toothy hole, Clem watched one filthy fist protrude followed by another, both preceding a crinkled sack atop two shoulders. A few moments later, Dirvin Morris was completely birthed from the crate of Carnation Instant Breakfast and shuffling shimmering sandals toward his outhouse.
And while there was no formal announcement, no official gathering of charities, a slow event took place. Individuals would stop at Dirvin's dwelling and ply their skill. Spare screws were shaken from their coffee cans. Moist boxes emerged from beneath moldy sinks to empty random adhesives. As the crate was connected to the outhouse and gradually made slightly more habitable, people left smiling. And the smile was infectious. And the town breathed well again.
And each twilight, two beautiful eyes batted their lids lazily, gazing at a very brown view and listening to the seagulls, and the waves.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Second to last part (pt 5)
•••pt 5 of the ongoing epic, please scroll to the previous sections•••
Splayed out in an ugly arc, stuffing the silent space of the 6AM to 8PM daytime viewing veranda, glassy eyed oglers huffed suffocating air and gazed over the masses and through the glass. Behind the smudged, scratched Pyrex brooded a blotchy captive circling his confines. Rusty red smears of oxidized blood muddied several of the panels forming the southern wall of the estate, along with soap, causing a shuffling discomfort in the populace. Yet despite the visual obfuscation, waves of washing purity emanated from the blotted partition.
Twelve days had passed since the last weekly town meeting. Dubbed by the next generation as "the shillyshally vs. the reactionary," the populace battled between two main factions. Those of the knee-jerk variety were verbose on the pulpit. Their platform stood on the assumption that should their shining idol be discovered, he would be eventually taken away. The meek and meager opposition to their argument was exactly that: meek and meager.
And so it was decided that a glass enclosure would be constructed, housed beneath a wooden shield. The passing of information regarding their new resident between towns would be punished accordingly. The shimmering beaches were quarantined to reduce the influx of tourists. A lone figure was allowed to prowl the surf's break, being still in everyone's best interest.
At some point of the evening, between the repelling remarks, quitely coagulated a collective shame. Eyes were cast to the scuffed floor, yet nobody in the room raised objection.
And now, on the veranda, a dozen days later, the crowd shifted it's weight from foot to foot, reading Dirvin's bizzare narrative scrawled in soap across the inside of the glass.
Reprinted here is his allegory:
Once there was an Irishman whose shit didn't stink. And one evening in a state of injudiciousness he proclaimed this vile aptitude to his audience of drunks. He lowered his trousers and strained a dirt upon the floor. His neighbors and friends came forth, delicately positioning their noses above the turd, withdrawing several moments later to proclaim his truth: there was no stink from his shite.
Then they hoisted him up and cast him out on the gravel.
"But why?" he asked. "There was no odor."
To which they replied, "Shit is shit."
With the cleaning crew assembling around their buckets and restraints, the spectators turned and dispersed. They whistled, for Dirvin's gift had left them lighter. The benefits of their captive canary, his very presence in fact, expunged any guilt they might have otherwise felt.
Except for the one person allowed on the beach whose grief was intact.
Splayed out in an ugly arc, stuffing the silent space of the 6AM to 8PM daytime viewing veranda, glassy eyed oglers huffed suffocating air and gazed over the masses and through the glass. Behind the smudged, scratched Pyrex brooded a blotchy captive circling his confines. Rusty red smears of oxidized blood muddied several of the panels forming the southern wall of the estate, along with soap, causing a shuffling discomfort in the populace. Yet despite the visual obfuscation, waves of washing purity emanated from the blotted partition.
Twelve days had passed since the last weekly town meeting. Dubbed by the next generation as "the shillyshally vs. the reactionary," the populace battled between two main factions. Those of the knee-jerk variety were verbose on the pulpit. Their platform stood on the assumption that should their shining idol be discovered, he would be eventually taken away. The meek and meager opposition to their argument was exactly that: meek and meager.
And so it was decided that a glass enclosure would be constructed, housed beneath a wooden shield. The passing of information regarding their new resident between towns would be punished accordingly. The shimmering beaches were quarantined to reduce the influx of tourists. A lone figure was allowed to prowl the surf's break, being still in everyone's best interest.
At some point of the evening, between the repelling remarks, quitely coagulated a collective shame. Eyes were cast to the scuffed floor, yet nobody in the room raised objection.
And now, on the veranda, a dozen days later, the crowd shifted it's weight from foot to foot, reading Dirvin's bizzare narrative scrawled in soap across the inside of the glass.
Reprinted here is his allegory:
Once there was an Irishman whose shit didn't stink. And one evening in a state of injudiciousness he proclaimed this vile aptitude to his audience of drunks. He lowered his trousers and strained a dirt upon the floor. His neighbors and friends came forth, delicately positioning their noses above the turd, withdrawing several moments later to proclaim his truth: there was no stink from his shite.
Then they hoisted him up and cast him out on the gravel.
"But why?" he asked. "There was no odor."
To which they replied, "Shit is shit."
With the cleaning crew assembling around their buckets and restraints, the spectators turned and dispersed. They whistled, for Dirvin's gift had left them lighter. The benefits of their captive canary, his very presence in fact, expunged any guilt they might have otherwise felt.
Except for the one person allowed on the beach whose grief was intact.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Pt. 4
(part 4 of a story. read Part 1, 2, and 3 first. Although, after re-reading them in the order in which I published them, parts 2 and 3 would do better if transposed. So read 1 first, then 3 then 2. Or don't)
On shimmering sands a shuddering man clutched the pulpy shreds sticking to his face, eyes closed and praying a child's prayer: to awake from this terrible nightmare. To open his eyes and see blankness, on his weathered floor, head shrouded beneath his cold brown curtain of crinkly comfort.
Roger's wind rushed into and out of him and soon he was dizzy from the effort. The exertion of dragging the man who refused to swim all the way to shore left his hands throbbing. His oxygen debt was compounded by the several minutes he had spent on the island screaming at the stone-still stranger before picking him up and hurling him, like so many plates before him, into the waves. As the land-mass drifted further to sea it had began to pitch, releasing huge bubbles of rancid fumes, seeming like some bloated stinking dog rolling over in the surf.
Through the fingers that held the remains of his identity tight to his cheeks, Dirvin studied his bluish companion. When Roger noticed the odd eyes peering at him, his exasperation erupted. He lifted his afflictive fingers and tore away the masking hands. With one great movement he slapped away the remnants of fibrous pulp that clung to the flinching face.
Roger stammered, transfixed by the sight, aghast, amazed.
For Dirvin Morris was the most beautiful person in the world. And as Roger opened and closed his jaw, the pain that racked his hands vanished, and the burning of his muscles dissipated, and everything seemed better in the world.
And around them, locals who had come to the beach to skip stones or paint or neck with their lovers all gathered, drawn like filings to a magnet, feeling their ailments and anguishes blowing away in Dirvin's beautiful breeze. They reveled in him, from his glorious copper hair to his now bare feet.
Before the sun could lay it's dry face into the cool relief of the horizon, the locals had whisked him into town where he was made to perch on the bandstand and remove all their sufferings with his orphic exquisiteness.
On shimmering sands a shuddering man clutched the pulpy shreds sticking to his face, eyes closed and praying a child's prayer: to awake from this terrible nightmare. To open his eyes and see blankness, on his weathered floor, head shrouded beneath his cold brown curtain of crinkly comfort.
Roger's wind rushed into and out of him and soon he was dizzy from the effort. The exertion of dragging the man who refused to swim all the way to shore left his hands throbbing. His oxygen debt was compounded by the several minutes he had spent on the island screaming at the stone-still stranger before picking him up and hurling him, like so many plates before him, into the waves. As the land-mass drifted further to sea it had began to pitch, releasing huge bubbles of rancid fumes, seeming like some bloated stinking dog rolling over in the surf.
Through the fingers that held the remains of his identity tight to his cheeks, Dirvin studied his bluish companion. When Roger noticed the odd eyes peering at him, his exasperation erupted. He lifted his afflictive fingers and tore away the masking hands. With one great movement he slapped away the remnants of fibrous pulp that clung to the flinching face.
Roger stammered, transfixed by the sight, aghast, amazed.
For Dirvin Morris was the most beautiful person in the world. And as Roger opened and closed his jaw, the pain that racked his hands vanished, and the burning of his muscles dissipated, and everything seemed better in the world.
And around them, locals who had come to the beach to skip stones or paint or neck with their lovers all gathered, drawn like filings to a magnet, feeling their ailments and anguishes blowing away in Dirvin's beautiful breeze. They reveled in him, from his glorious copper hair to his now bare feet.
Before the sun could lay it's dry face into the cool relief of the horizon, the locals had whisked him into town where he was made to perch on the bandstand and remove all their sufferings with his orphic exquisiteness.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Pt. 3
***Part 3 of a moral-less allegory. Please read Part 1 and Part 2 first.***
There were stones in Dirvin's passway, and the road laid before him was dark.
The darkness was nothing new, having spent such a time beneath his paper shroud, but the rubble stubbing his toes was a disconcerting augury. And the darkness wasn't velvety depth it should have been...
He had awoken on the floor, which in itself was not out of the ordinary, but he had no recollection of retiring. An unfamiliar draft chilled him. He stretched his legs, plowing dusty detritus into neat little mounds with his velcro strap shoes.
Dirvin drooped his bag-head and pressed his bag-face into his hands. And felt something wet. Bringing his moistened fingers up into his very personal space and tapping them against his tongue, the tang of iron told him it was blood. As his digits revisited the gore they discovered something even more distressing: a hole. Desperately desiring to concentrate on recalling the previous evening, this new aperture was the supreme distraction. It required repair, posthaste.
Following the probing feelers of his long loafers, Dirvin made his way to the tumbling towers of yellow hogging the better portion of the room. Folding himself cross-legged, hunched like a crumpled Buddha among the thousand Carnation cartons, he began the task at hand. One by one, he would locate the blue and white adhesive tag applied by Rose General Market for pricing. Delicately, he would pry up the sticker and purposefully place it, slowly fashioning a bandage for his paper carapace.
And as the puncture began to fill over, Dirvin's mind began to relax.
Breathing deep and steady, he attempted to recount the evening's unfolding. He sighed and shivered and eventually slumbered, sleeping a grimy and grey sleep, splayed across a bright cardboard bed. And awoke in a panic.
His arousal was violent, as if some subconscious malice pressed a hot flint to his earlobe, and his flailing legs sent a plume of mildewed rot blowing away in the wind. As his fingers patterned dust into uniform ridges with their nervous scraping, memory flooded in like a backwash. Memories of a storm. A great storm. Memories of a thundering elemental colossus, the shuddering pitch of the floor, the choking black of his paper bag as he stumbled, and the great groan of the very earth he stood upon.
And it was pondering these newly found memories beneath his newly patched cap that Dirvin stumbled into the outdoors. After several minutes of investigation, it became clear that his outbuilding was no longer connected, it's aluminum and tin umbilical cord shorn jaggedly. After several more minutes he was aware that something much larger was amiss, for the sandy rut that had once led to town now only brought him to a void, an empty space where his slipper-tips dangled over the big blue sea.
There were stones in Dirvin's passway, and the road laid before him was dark.
The darkness was nothing new, having spent such a time beneath his paper shroud, but the rubble stubbing his toes was a disconcerting augury. And the darkness wasn't velvety depth it should have been...
He had awoken on the floor, which in itself was not out of the ordinary, but he had no recollection of retiring. An unfamiliar draft chilled him. He stretched his legs, plowing dusty detritus into neat little mounds with his velcro strap shoes.
Dirvin drooped his bag-head and pressed his bag-face into his hands. And felt something wet. Bringing his moistened fingers up into his very personal space and tapping them against his tongue, the tang of iron told him it was blood. As his digits revisited the gore they discovered something even more distressing: a hole. Desperately desiring to concentrate on recalling the previous evening, this new aperture was the supreme distraction. It required repair, posthaste.
Following the probing feelers of his long loafers, Dirvin made his way to the tumbling towers of yellow hogging the better portion of the room. Folding himself cross-legged, hunched like a crumpled Buddha among the thousand Carnation cartons, he began the task at hand. One by one, he would locate the blue and white adhesive tag applied by Rose General Market for pricing. Delicately, he would pry up the sticker and purposefully place it, slowly fashioning a bandage for his paper carapace.
And as the puncture began to fill over, Dirvin's mind began to relax.
Breathing deep and steady, he attempted to recount the evening's unfolding. He sighed and shivered and eventually slumbered, sleeping a grimy and grey sleep, splayed across a bright cardboard bed. And awoke in a panic.
His arousal was violent, as if some subconscious malice pressed a hot flint to his earlobe, and his flailing legs sent a plume of mildewed rot blowing away in the wind. As his fingers patterned dust into uniform ridges with their nervous scraping, memory flooded in like a backwash. Memories of a storm. A great storm. Memories of a thundering elemental colossus, the shuddering pitch of the floor, the choking black of his paper bag as he stumbled, and the great groan of the very earth he stood upon.
And it was pondering these newly found memories beneath his newly patched cap that Dirvin stumbled into the outdoors. After several minutes of investigation, it became clear that his outbuilding was no longer connected, it's aluminum and tin umbilical cord shorn jaggedly. After several more minutes he was aware that something much larger was amiss, for the sandy rut that had once led to town now only brought him to a void, an empty space where his slipper-tips dangled over the big blue sea.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Pt.2
***Part 2 of an untitled fairy-tale, please read part 1 first***
Large saucers coasted over the azure horizon, reflecting the jaundiced sunrise of a post-storm morning, their porcelain circumferences levitating for fifty yards before dipping (plummeting, really) into the burbling surf below. Followed by the occasional shoe. And on the shore, Roger Kessel heaved gigantic breaths and flexed his gigantic hands, watching the graceful arcs of his jettisoned flotsam.
Roger had a ritual. This particular rite was generally accepted by local law enforcement as an exercise in personal well-being. The consensus held that whatever reason Roger had for standing on the beach and pitching second-hand dishes into the sea, it was probably in everyone's best interest to let him proceed. And after all, 22 years of plates pulverized and polished by the tide lent the sands an ethereal shimmer that drew tourists from as far away as Brunswick.
As for the shoes, they did not accumulate. The steady pulse of waves ferried them to the beach, where Roger would retrieve and hurl them back in a perpetual, slow motion game of hot potato.
Roger's elongated digits were punctuated by bulbous joints that ached and festered. Several times daily, Roger would stop and glower at his extremities, sucking his teeth and grimacing before stooping for his next discus. And so he was caught glowering, bent and focused with pinched face and centered ire staring at his paws when the giant rock drifted past.
For years, geologists and seismologists would debate the feasibility of Roger's tale, while rational people would argue about the stability of his mental state. No matter what their opinion on the unfolding of events, the outcome and resulting phenomena was concrete. His fantastic narrative went as follows:
As his suffering fingers let fly the day's last projectile, his eyes were arrested by the strangest sight. On the waves about 100 yards offshore sailed a miniature island, a ship made of rock and earth. Perched atop it was a crooked cabin with a twisted tin tube protruding from it's side and over the edge. And teetering on the brink swayed a body, swaddled in disintegrating rags, with extended shoes jutting out into space and a paper bag covering his head, shuddering.
As he stood in shock, jaw unhinged and mouth agape in amazement, one thing became very clear to Roger. The boat was sinking. Each blue undulation of the water lapped slightly higher against the hull of the odd floating boulder. And so he did what he knew had to be done. He plucked off his battered shoes, heaved them into the swaying sea with all his muscle, and plunged himself in after, paddling with enormous, distressed hands, intent on rescuing this mysterious masked stranger from his floundering prison.
Large saucers coasted over the azure horizon, reflecting the jaundiced sunrise of a post-storm morning, their porcelain circumferences levitating for fifty yards before dipping (plummeting, really) into the burbling surf below. Followed by the occasional shoe. And on the shore, Roger Kessel heaved gigantic breaths and flexed his gigantic hands, watching the graceful arcs of his jettisoned flotsam.
Roger had a ritual. This particular rite was generally accepted by local law enforcement as an exercise in personal well-being. The consensus held that whatever reason Roger had for standing on the beach and pitching second-hand dishes into the sea, it was probably in everyone's best interest to let him proceed. And after all, 22 years of plates pulverized and polished by the tide lent the sands an ethereal shimmer that drew tourists from as far away as Brunswick.
As for the shoes, they did not accumulate. The steady pulse of waves ferried them to the beach, where Roger would retrieve and hurl them back in a perpetual, slow motion game of hot potato.
Roger's elongated digits were punctuated by bulbous joints that ached and festered. Several times daily, Roger would stop and glower at his extremities, sucking his teeth and grimacing before stooping for his next discus. And so he was caught glowering, bent and focused with pinched face and centered ire staring at his paws when the giant rock drifted past.
For years, geologists and seismologists would debate the feasibility of Roger's tale, while rational people would argue about the stability of his mental state. No matter what their opinion on the unfolding of events, the outcome and resulting phenomena was concrete. His fantastic narrative went as follows:
As his suffering fingers let fly the day's last projectile, his eyes were arrested by the strangest sight. On the waves about 100 yards offshore sailed a miniature island, a ship made of rock and earth. Perched atop it was a crooked cabin with a twisted tin tube protruding from it's side and over the edge. And teetering on the brink swayed a body, swaddled in disintegrating rags, with extended shoes jutting out into space and a paper bag covering his head, shuddering.
As he stood in shock, jaw unhinged and mouth agape in amazement, one thing became very clear to Roger. The boat was sinking. Each blue undulation of the water lapped slightly higher against the hull of the odd floating boulder. And so he did what he knew had to be done. He plucked off his battered shoes, heaved them into the swaying sea with all his muscle, and plunged himself in after, paddling with enormous, distressed hands, intent on rescuing this mysterious masked stranger from his floundering prison.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
A story, or a beginning
A story...
Dirvin Morris lived in the smallest of saltboxes, a rickety rack of leaning shack precariously pitched west as if plowing headlong into a gale. His commode and wood-stove resided in an out-building connected via patchwork ducts, providing protection from a catastrophe at the hearth, but at the price of a lingering foul odor.
Dirvin hardly noticed. The air filling the paper bag he always wore over his head smelled mostly of his breath, which was itself quite pungent owing to his lack of hygiene. Had his dwelling been outfitted with indoor plumbing, it is doubtful the situation would have been any different, for the water required by most modern bathroom practices would most certainly cause irreparable harm to his brown paper burkha.
Why he remained separated from the word by that scratchy paper veil for so many years was local mystery. A semi-weekly debate was deliberated around the corner table at Estelle's Cafe, down in town, with the frowning and squinting old-timer fixtures taking long sips of their decaf coffee between postulations. One school of thought (and the one that is perhaps the most inviolable) holds that a traumatic brain injury and it's impact might compel Dirvin's awkward position. Other's say perhaps severe tissue trauma left him a horrific monstrosity, or perhaps a physiological aversion to sunlight would cause his face to melt if it was exposed.
Whatever the truth, they all sat silently watching every other Wednesday as he shuffled down the street to the grocer's to place his order, which would be hurriedly left on his stoop several hours later by the bike-bound delivery boy who sweated to sleep every second Tuesday.
And so he shambled between the hovel and the outhouse with eyes perpetually fixed downward at the extra long slippers contrived to forewarn of impending impacts, for his paper lid was penetrated by no perforation. Sustenance was mostly delivered by straw, and Dirvin was the largest consumer of Carnation Instant Breakfasts in the greater Kennebunk area. As a result, he had received several letters of thanks from Nestle honoring his loyal patronage, but long ago he had grown tired of straining himself reading one dreary sentence after another in the space afforded between chin and bag, so they sat unopened. And Mr. Morris sat every evening instead with a very brown view, listening to the seagulls and the waves.
Dirvin Morris lived in the smallest of saltboxes, a rickety rack of leaning shack precariously pitched west as if plowing headlong into a gale. His commode and wood-stove resided in an out-building connected via patchwork ducts, providing protection from a catastrophe at the hearth, but at the price of a lingering foul odor.
Dirvin hardly noticed. The air filling the paper bag he always wore over his head smelled mostly of his breath, which was itself quite pungent owing to his lack of hygiene. Had his dwelling been outfitted with indoor plumbing, it is doubtful the situation would have been any different, for the water required by most modern bathroom practices would most certainly cause irreparable harm to his brown paper burkha.
Why he remained separated from the word by that scratchy paper veil for so many years was local mystery. A semi-weekly debate was deliberated around the corner table at Estelle's Cafe, down in town, with the frowning and squinting old-timer fixtures taking long sips of their decaf coffee between postulations. One school of thought (and the one that is perhaps the most inviolable) holds that a traumatic brain injury and it's impact might compel Dirvin's awkward position. Other's say perhaps severe tissue trauma left him a horrific monstrosity, or perhaps a physiological aversion to sunlight would cause his face to melt if it was exposed.
Whatever the truth, they all sat silently watching every other Wednesday as he shuffled down the street to the grocer's to place his order, which would be hurriedly left on his stoop several hours later by the bike-bound delivery boy who sweated to sleep every second Tuesday.
And so he shambled between the hovel and the outhouse with eyes perpetually fixed downward at the extra long slippers contrived to forewarn of impending impacts, for his paper lid was penetrated by no perforation. Sustenance was mostly delivered by straw, and Dirvin was the largest consumer of Carnation Instant Breakfasts in the greater Kennebunk area. As a result, he had received several letters of thanks from Nestle honoring his loyal patronage, but long ago he had grown tired of straining himself reading one dreary sentence after another in the space afforded between chin and bag, so they sat unopened. And Mr. Morris sat every evening instead with a very brown view, listening to the seagulls and the waves.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Grind
Going and coming and going and going... like the pulsing tidal push polishes a plethora of pebbles into a podiatrists' pleasurable precipitate, life seems to wear the bearings of simple machines.
It's been a few days since I last dripped digital diatribe. Lately, I've devoted my sorry spare seconds scouring the Saharan state supervening our selectively superior soil. Remorselessly roundly rejected, I retire...
It's been a few days since I last dripped digital diatribe. Lately, I've devoted my sorry spare seconds scouring the Saharan state supervening our selectively superior soil. Remorselessly roundly rejected, I retire...
Sunday, March 1, 2009
evaluation
Today is the birthday of Theodor Geisel. I just found out.
Several years ago, a dear friend of ours bought me a book for my birthday. (This happened before my current embargo on owning books which was spawned by our close proximity to the library. No need to buy and store when you can borrow.) It was a floppy yet strangely thick paperback entitled Dr. Seuss Goes to War. And in it, I found a new angle on an old favorite, a childish yet mature editorial on the state of affairs.
And so, instead of pondering my passing years by periodically planing the perturbing protuberances from my proboscis and cursing the curly hairs encroaching my chest and shoulders, I think about silliness. Nonsense, and how it changes the world as we know it, requires appreciation of a wider projection.
I appreciate the ridiculous, the zany, the slaphappy... My writing is punctuated by goofy alliteration in homage to my childhood favorites. I dance daily. I revel in the ridiculous rain.
Several years ago, a dear friend of ours bought me a book for my birthday. (This happened before my current embargo on owning books which was spawned by our close proximity to the library. No need to buy and store when you can borrow.) It was a floppy yet strangely thick paperback entitled Dr. Seuss Goes to War. And in it, I found a new angle on an old favorite, a childish yet mature editorial on the state of affairs.
And so, instead of pondering my passing years by periodically planing the perturbing protuberances from my proboscis and cursing the curly hairs encroaching my chest and shoulders, I think about silliness. Nonsense, and how it changes the world as we know it, requires appreciation of a wider projection.
I appreciate the ridiculous, the zany, the slaphappy... My writing is punctuated by goofy alliteration in homage to my childhood favorites. I dance daily. I revel in the ridiculous rain.
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