Monday, November 12, 2012


There's a rumor, not of gold nor Herodotean bizarrerie, but of a rare kind of joy, easy to experience, yet ineffable, chiefly due to no one knowing its origin story though there are plenty of quack theories. Advice: save your stack of mystical tricksy and psychological symposia 'cause my innards are busy spending their waking hours spirographing inside both chord progressions and unproductive [ed. note: who says?] daydreaming.

This joy has nothing to do with a "job well done" whose specifics are dictated by The Man, members of his cabal, or favor-grasping, middle-management initiates; the simple pleasures oft cultivated by the complex personality; nor young springtime love, the kind of overcooked slop that balloons the heart of a sap until the chest cavity is left melodramatic with cracked ribs and a buckshot of muscle, aorta, vena cava, caves and seeing and shadow and all that philosophical bullshit of Ideas and Forms, the ideal form wink nudge, ad infinitum vomitorium. So, this unexplainable thing: an illusion?

For three minutes and twenty-six seconds hell no, and then it's gone, like the leaves I yesterday raked & bagged. No, no, no, not mine, I like the crunch, and it has nothing to do with Van Halen or Indian summer or the club days, theirs or mine. This joy from out of nowhere just is, no Slick Willie allusions, thanks, and its emanations could be a striking passage in a book you're reading for the first time, the Beatles (doubtful), a shared guffaw over a string of dumb, your favorite brand of yogurt, a plane tree, plain pizza, a field of green, greenbacks, green jeans, a Route 66 roadtrip, Polaroided just like we used to do a long time ago because 35mm was a pain in the Fotohut.

Touch your wrist; no sparkly fizz, no blood in a tizzy, nothing but runny emulsion, as if a picture of a ghost, someone call Nimoy. No scary here, only a deep calm, and this is about the worst articulation job you'll ever read on anything I can all but guarantee. This is why I'm not a writer.

If you could crawl in my head, and thank Cthulhu that you can't, some of you hippies might collate these scattered bits into some Buddhist freeing from desire & thus cause for celebration, but I still want, believe me; think more along the lines of a cool, Dale Cooper need for coffee and a slice of that cherry pie. Emotion brandishes an iron fist, but on occasion drops its guard, bounding off black entropy onto one of Technicolor, and fires smooth.

The coffee and a slice of cherry pie ain't sat in front of me, so I wonder what the secret is; bet I can find it. That's the illusion.


ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

A DAMN fine cup of coffee, R.G.

Randal Graves said...

Dammit, I've got the coffee, now I want a piece of pie.

zencomix said...

"This is why I'm not a writer."

Ahh, but the secret is, you are a writer.

Demeur said...

Have you been using one of those male testosterone products again? Didn't your read the side effects label?

Tom Harper said...

OK, I've had my 3 minutes 26 seconds of intangible joy. Now what?

Randal Graves said...

zen, alright then, not a very good one, but I've got tunes, so it's cool.

demeur, if I had been, don't you think this post would have had more face punching and explosions?

tom, eternal disappointment, duh.

Beach Bum said...

That's the illusion.

Oh, okay, that clears everything up.

Nunly said...

I sure have missed your writing. And ummm....the hell with cherry pie, go for the triple layered chocolate cake with fudge frosting and nuts. Cherry pie is for the birds. Or is that black berry pie...or plum, you stick in your thumb and pull out a plum.

Oh well, here's to JOY! Enjoy it while it's around. ;-)

Randal Graves said...

BB, make sure you use it, or Axl will sue.

nunly, bah, pie is better than cake, but hold the Cool Whip, that shit's as hideous as listening to a politician though it is good for throwing in their face, ergo, joy, but that also sounds like work, ergo, misery, so now I want some pie to go with this coffee.