Re-entering the Blogosphere

ladies and gentlemen, brothers and sisters, friends, and enemies...

months have elapsed since the supposed re-opening of my blogging efforts. months of desultory meanderings through my mind. months of navel-gazing that produced no truly commendable results. months of lamenting the lamentable crossroads i have entered and seem unwilling to part ways with. until now...

somewhere, between then and now, i have a story to tell. somewhere, you may have been privy to that story. more likely, you are not.

the story of my life remains a story i loathe to tell. not that i think my story a particularly bad or sad or unhappy or boring or exultant or special one. in fact, many have told me that the story of my life bears telling. strangers and friends have spoken of the many experiences i lived through—stories i've recounted out loud for their lucky ears—as burning with interest, illumination, inspiration, and more. these superlatives invariably surprise me. i cannot honestly say i am happy with my life. nor can i honestly say i am unhappy with it. it is what it is. or, as popeye cites from the old testament, "i yam what yam."

what i am, then, is a compendium of stories. i am the twin bookends for the doppleganger comprised of the episodes i have yet to tell in conjunction with those i have managed to reshape according to the forms most convenient to the situation and shape of my listeners. but my personal story continues. to me, it would seem unseemly to break matters of at some point not far from this temporal spatial illusion i surround myself with in order to call my life as lived a story, a memoir, a reminiscence, a modern-day fable based on a true story. to me, the way i see it, a story is never true, albeit conveying the finest grains  of truth—even mountains thereof.

instead, my stories—those that count—i must fashion from the dictates of imagination. what i see, i imagine. and what i imagine, i see. in this way, i began my love affair with the story. this formless formation of words refashioned and reused from my encounters with words is the only way i know to tell stories. i blame my mother and grandmother. my mother for telling me stories at night, for sitting between my younger brother and me with an open book on her knees and the finest collection of voices in her lungs that any storyteller could ask for. every character babar ever encountered had a voice unlike that strange elephant, whose own voice was childlike but masculine. every male sounded male, every elder, elderly. and her narrator's voice was always pitch-perfect. her rhythms superseded any notion of time.

over the years, i've enjoyed reading aloud more than writing. once, after a staged reading, several audience members came forth to assure me that i proved a far better actor than the other  ten actors i read with. they were wrong, i replied to all, i am a better reader. for the bit characters i'd been assigned by my friend, the script writer, i had assigned each a particular voice, an accent, a dialect wholly unique. and i stuck to them. shove me onstage or in front of a camera with no script in hand, i would turn as wooden as pinocchio the day before he was born. no actor, in order to read, i wrote.

but the literary reading disappeared from the city thanks to the fearsome rise of the slam. more and more, memoir and confession knocked the pants off of stories and poems. everywhere, from the moth to the fame of the national poetry slam, the writerly pursuit of weaving language to create unimaginable vistas in the mind's eyes and ears was shunted aside. bogus scholarship followed, spawning pop-philosophers whose subjects were the analyses of cyberspace—a sprawling, gargantuan business concern with none of the literary roots that sprouted that adjective—and the dozens of steps to self-actualization, self-help, and self-knowledge. a decade passed by. then another.

but today, quietly, with little fanfare, i see signs that literature has survived the wreckage to which american pop culture tried so hard to subjugate language. curiously, these american obsessions fail to translate well. devoid of the runaway capitalist underpinnings that have jerry-rigged the american juggernaut on shoddy, weak pins that threaten to collapse any moment, other cultures have little stomach for this finance-driven assault on the aesthetic fountain of life. a secret prepares to reveal itself in the richness of imagination. elves and gnomes, unicorns and fairies, dragons and trolls drag themselves from the somnolent spell to confront the legions of zombies and robots, police and thieves, technocrats and spies encroaching on the life of the indomitable spirit of life fortified by the abundance of infinite energy. untold fables, unheard myths, magical realities chock-a-block with the earthly remedies that still catapult this earth on its spiraling trajectory through the farthest, deepest reaches of the universal infinity that we become carry now a quickness, a certainty, a palpable pulse unimagined for ten story-starved years...

if you do not believe you remember the spectacle... if you think you somehow missed it... if you fear you don't understand it... if you refuse to ever believe in it... this is the spectacular mnemonicon for you... this is the start of the story you forgot you learned not to imagine... there is no doorway... here is no stairway... perception awaits you... heavenly bodies form triangulations that age the light in your hearts with quicksilver... the messenger never arrived to be killed by you or your evil empire's hired assassins... the traitors in your midst remain all that we have to lead us from sabotage to velvet gold, mined without the black blood of diamonds or the petrochemical cancers you wrap fresh fruit and vegetables with... twenty years ago, a poor white boy run amok with ill-got riches reminded us all, nevermind... dead, he lives on nevermore... a conspiracy of ravens follows a murder of crows... here are the seeds of revolution planted, where tree toads sing at the empty grammar school through summers at stanton and norfolk... the garden is silent... the apple tree, far too old... stay with me or come back... together, i portend no less than to cook up some voices in my head that we can read out loud and clear the signs and symbols that return the spectacle's survival into life...


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