Part 1: Beginnings
Chris Youngblood September 16, 2023
A child left to his own devices, scorned for scraping thorns in the woods that drifted out into the cliffs. Sitting, wasting hours in thought, looking for Bigfoot but only finding dazed deer. Headlights looming, no flowers blooming in that meadow. If only a cliff could run this far out, how far could I go, how deep into this trapping mesh can I tangle until I lose my footing? Or is it back to “no pudding” until you eat your meat. Caught between two opposing polarities like a Renaissance moon. Moon pales nightfall, listening to whispers of screams, I have become the trickster, the boundary -crosser just to see if their moods would change. I was told to be back on time, but I have no watch; time stops here. SO SAYS THE SHADOW.
Alpha
A PBS Mystery Theater followed by late night mix clock radio style. Equal parts Sherlock Holmes sleuth and “Don’t believe the Hype” couth. I do get on the mix late in the night, but Baskerville hounds be haunting my dreams, psyche. Fertile ground for a curious mind, but don’t go thinking you won’t step on a mine. Courtroom jesters on TV play out the investigation, but for some reason the verdict seems scripted, lifted from the Walter Lippmann headlines. If only I’d read Kafka back then. Maybe those big capitol letters wouldn’t haunt me later in life. Oh, the folly of law, it makes for such grand fakery. What about the real investigation, the elementary of it?
The other side of himself is filled with grand illusions of a world where you can work hard, follow the rules, get married have kids. All the lies told for how long now. A piece of paper with ink signifies so much. You don’t have to do anything but follow and we will present with a paper that you did that. Hurray! The town hall in his dreams shouted this, drowning out his doubt, scurrying away his dialogue he found peacefully on a dusty shelf. Left to explore still, yes, but hollow. One of Elliot’s Hollow Men.
Rebel, Rebel, Rebel. Propel, down an abyss, a hole. Packed with a shovel to dig and possibly swing. But he won’t swing on anyone’s words or nuts. There is no tax exempt sanctuary to bow out into. No belief system to adhere to. No rest for the wicked and no peace for the peasants. Stripped naked, taken into an economic chop shop, his parts were split for scraps. However, he mad sure to hide the golden nuggets under his balls before the vultures scavenged him. That is a skill he fortuitously learned at an early age, and it has never left him.
Automaton Megatron. “Where does his rage seep up from? He’s usually so calm and kind?” Foolish to think that a child’s misgivings and intuitiveness could ever be utilized in this incarnation (or is it).
Poetry hobby while waiting in the lobby for interviews. He could write a novel of believable fiction on the interview alone. A farce, a representative sent to speak for oneself. Is there nothing more Broadway than a production which keeps them over laughing, character roles, masks. Scrapping together a picket fence life. Lapping against the tides in an Ouroboros. The horizon too far to see, not to mention, swim straight. But hey, there’s always Sunday right?
How did he get here? That cliff that he used to go out onto is no longer there. New condos reside, nature unbalanced. When the nights got cold back then, he could walk back home, reevaluate. Not now. You are in the thick of it son. You are in the shit. HOW WILL YOU GET OUT?!
Like David Gilmour said, “There’s No Way Out of Here.” To be continued…….
Omega