| | Last time I had written anything was a little more than half a year ago. Now, a little more than half a year later, as if projected from that moment I finished that last word at that last moment with that last thought, I sit on the morning of July 3rd and it seems right now to be as good a day as any other to make my return to this dreadful and wonderful publication. I say publication because it makes it sound grand. And I do like the grand.
It is true, often times I go for the low and the grassrooted, the indie and the derelict. I make myself out to be that way because it stands out and it attracts me. There is a sense of glory in that---to root for the underdog, to overturn the powers that be, and to witness the uprising of the lower class. It's always fascinated me, and why not? What's more grand than the fireworks display that is the human spirit? That scream of defiance and call to arms? If you ask me, the intelligence reside in the upper class; the idealism, the glamour and the details. There you will find the opera house and the orchestra, the mannerism and the intricate jewelries crafted by expert and expertly skilled specialists. All admirable, and all examples of the achievements of human culture. But the heart... nobody shows the heart as much as the lower class. There's no idealism or glamour or details. They can't afford it. It's all rough, gruff, and in the end they may not even win any battles, those ragtag motherfuckers. But there they are, regardless. Living on the bare edge of life, and that edge shaves off anything that otherwise bounds their spirit. And they march. Sometimes they charge forward and we get to witness what may be the closest we can get to a non-existent god, but mostly they just march. And there's no shame or disappointment in that. It's not easy baring your heart out in the gutters, just as it's not easy being the expert craftsman of the court.
I wouldn't know any of the above, of course. I don't live on the edge or the centre of life. It's just a little musing that grew on the spot. Just consider it the little tribute from the man in the middle.
I write neither poems or books, reports or anything worthwhile to any intellect! I write neither rancid ramblings of celebrity gossip or logs of what flavour of cake I had last night! I am the man in the middle. Average with a fire that burns like a medium sized candle; vanilla-scented because I'm not without taste but still very bland in comparison to the playful. I've some delusions with my abilities, perhaps even a lot, but nothing that's harmful to anyone outside of myself. I'm kind of flawed, like that 537th action figure coming off of the conveyor belt that's a little bit off on the paint on the eyes, in such a way that I'm still a little different from the previous 536, but largely the everloving same: assembled and packaged by average workers in typical factories to be shipped off to ordinary store shelves. Some of us get picked up and are found by our playmates based on pure luck of when and where we're displayed, others suffer from torn boxes during shipping. Or some others have pretty okay boxes but the paint is off and it's visible through the clear plastic of the box. That's a pretty telling sign that it will always be closed in, and no one will ever want to open its packaging and get to know what's inside.
Mind you, I'm not saying anything. I'm just saying.
Originally I planned to say some more, or something else entirely but that seemed to have flown away. Or maybe not completely as there are still a couple of feathers around where it used to be. That'll be proof enough to show that it was here at least. Something to hold onto, I suppose, as remnants of what's no longer there. I can still tell you now, but no. Nah. Bad idea. I decide against it. You wouldn't be impressed because it's not grand. And you do like it grand, don't you? To put it up now is just too middle man.
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| | Posted 7/3/2009 9:47 AM - 13 Views - 2 eProps - 1 Comment
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