Is there a fear of the familiar that can cross the line and make us embrace those who hate us, correction, intensely dislike us? To just get fed up of chasing the hem of someone’s garment and to choose a path scary and even fatalistic and take the plunge by tapping , maybe twice, that refresh button to escape stock answers and behavior that meet standards of expectations co-firming the-the glories and tacit-reflux of boredom. A little under-think-er-ing when you decide that it may be the season for a little age of under-reason and add a few new wrinkles to your life and not streams on your face to-to convey tears to your soul. But what can you expect from a near paralysis and myo-pik-it view filtered by layers of censored and domes-resticated opinions where excuses and B.S. is reframed as an exalted value in a theory of the leisure class where the transfer of obsession from emotion to object still hops from one loop to the next and self-absorption is still akin to a siege, metaphorically of your mind as city state.
That life is short and we should waste it, is the greatest form of luxury; after all, we can always find it again, a few seconds here or there to put comfortables away in the bank, or an old sock or for the more ambitious, inside a mattress. Only the cheapskates reply they don’t have time and the busy signal just means go eternally piss in the river of time and remember to flush hard on the way out; Wheels do have to go round, but we don’t fix broken axles, flat tires sometimes, depending, dented rims occasionally, but no springs, screws or bolts. please.
Somehow, it comes back to the attraction of the story teller. Something that stirs that something inside, to rise from a seeming coma on the couch and ask “what the heck is going on here?” Something totally improvised yet somehow guided by the unseen hand of a structure; the hands in the hair, the flick and tick of the near and far extremities. Its art. its theatre. it has everything to do about the subject and absolutely nothing minus zero. to squint and wrinkle the nose and admit something is vaguely familiar, somewhere back in a forgotten, make that misplaced memory bank but the clues are few and from far unseen. There may be a story to be written and a magic that can coax familiar to fantastic. But don’t rush. take your time. I need another cup of coffee and the filter sometimes drips wisdom through droplets. excuse the little slurp.
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