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Bings…
Story:
Some time ago, I was told, “to be a great writer you need to read the
works of the greats; as an example they said, writers like Shakespeare.” I
told them I would never read Shakespeare, and in fact I rarely read at all.
Periodicals, magazines, the news, that's it; I most likely will never read someone
else's works. I read information and make
my own translations and interpretations of that information. Men and women
who spend a great deal of their lives gathering information.... to me, live a very real sacrifice for their fellow
man. They provide the rest of us with answers with which to mold our
imaginations and stitch the fabrics of our lives together; the men an women of
curiosity, science and search are magnificent for sacrificing a kiss for their
endeavors. For in my shallow world, the warm breath of a kiss, the
succulent touch of a love, are two of my precious reasons to breath. A
loves want... to touch my used life is enough to shudder my breathing, I have
nothing as magnificent to offer as clues to explain life. In my world, if not for
love of life, why else rise...if not for the need and want why breath? Men
and women possess knowledge unique to their psyche; the interpretations of
others are dried leaves. All
humans posses life experiences and interpretations of those experiences which
another has not. I was informed
“most great writers follow the examples of other great writers, structure,
basic ’flow’, etc.” I
explained that I would not want to read another's work for fear the influence
would ‘taint’ my writings; albeit crude examples of literature by any standards. The change in style may help the indoctrinated, or 'learned' reader, but not me. I would feel rebuked
and very much saddened if I were to hear someone say “your work looks
familiar, sounds familiar, is familiar.”
I never want to hear “oh, he writes like Shakespeare”; for my tender heart would
break in two for hearing my uniqueness was just a dream.
I would rather hear "oh look... one of Rialto's...it's obvious.... his
familiar stain of ignorance always
rubs off the pages, my fingers are blackened by one who is blind as well as
deaf; I'll not despair, for I have his rag with witch to bath!
Fortunately, if people did compare these pages with someone else's, their familiarity with my writing would be purely coincidental.
Perhaps arrogant, yet I would never purposefully learn the traits of he who
sought the ear of the wealthy during a time of boredom and the great
pursuit of nothing. Is it so great a thing
to quote the obvious? Has there ever been a man or woman who knows not the
scent of flowers...is it not enough to experience that brief moment, without a
ghost to describe it for you? The feat was not at
all, for what else was there? The opinions of those stuffing
snuff up their noses to hide the aromatic smell of dried feces emanating from
the bunched layers of embroidered silk bloomers they stuffed between the
unwashed cheeks of their asses was the prize?
Smelly,
overindulgent pigs historians are just now putting in their true place.
The same critics of Shakespeare and of ‘art’ bathed once a month, if
that. This was the 'nod' Shakespeare begged from
across the room? From the pharos, these overindulgent, lazy dogs of
society almost annihilated a species with their lack of cleanliness, hygiene,
and apparent ignorance of all things biological and indifference to the stench
of plagues. All evidence points to the fact the 'elite'
allowed power, arrogance, and snuff to diffuse the stench of raw shit in the
streets; hence, who are the ignorant which allowed pagans and wealthy to
die? They're ignorance and use of monies to pay others to think for them, would surely perish
their names.
These
are the people who are going to set my curriculum, set the standard for what is
and what should be? I think
not, for I truly feel sorry for the ignorant of life.
I truly pity the absence of participation by the ignorant wealthy
who feed off true imagination and wonder. The same can be said of Bing cherries.
I’ve heard countless orchardists when tasting a new variety of cherry,
“its firm like a Bing, its size is comparable to a Bing, and the taste is very
much like a Bing; this is a wonderful cherry and may be the next Bing!”
When I hear this, I think to myself, “why not just buy Bings?”
Please don’t open these covers and expect a ghost using bloomers to contain the
stench of the unbathed! I do not talk
in riddles, why would I? As with
writing, if you like the way Shakespeare writes, then by all means, go out and
buy a book of Shakespeare, bid millions to purchase a piece of parchment with
his dye because like the toady, you
strain your ears to catch morsels emanating from the sty across the room.
The swine haven’t even asked you, have they?
Instead they told you this is what should be and you kissed the lips of
cowardice, forsaking your uniqueness. I think it a bruise on
your dignity to mistaken a nod from across the room for genius and couth.
Their silence is an attempt to feign nobility when in fact they have
nothing of importance to add to society. They cast a wicked smile your way
because like the crow they seek carrion. Know
this; the individual they seek must already be injured and unable to fly.
As I watch from the cool fields, golden candlelight warm their windows; yet
like their guests, the Lourdes can sleep sound tonight; knowing their spent
wealth on cotton & silk hardly touch millions starving to death on distant
shores. If you like Bings, go out
and buy a pound and end your search for a cheap impostor.
If you like Shakespeare, buy a ticket and sit with hundreds near a
sweltering stage to smell the sweat! Hang on every word as it surrounds you with
awe and desire; for Shakespeare is Shakespeare and like a cheep date, I am who
you paid to follow you home. Enjoy
that which you
have, and from behind closed doors, cherish the moment, for you are not alone.
There will be no applause when you end a chapter.
And whilst thou may toss and turn, the seat is bought, know tonight you are
on my
stage. “To speed my pen with Shakespeare’s dreams is to steal his imagination,
soul, and style. To do so by
any means is to steal another's smile.” Bundle
in your bed with a snifter of brandy and listen to your heart. To spend
another's imagination to make my love swoon, am I perhaps the toady, or the
thief across the room! Shall I stuff
my nose with roses to garner favor of the critic who dined on Shakespeare in
their youth, or leave the foul odor of pigs to let my imagination and
individualism be the scent which fills your nostrils?
Why should new writers pay over and over for the force feeding of this
goat? Toadies doing the bidding of
aristocracy while tenure hangs like beef in a market!
Ha! It is well they give you not what you desire unless you play the mime
in front of their crowd. If you
delve into my thoughts looking for perfection, please stop reading; I would
rather you gently put this text back than to know I have disappointed yet
another. As you thumb the
pages, surely you know perfection dwells in another's hands.
These words and writings are testament I posses neither perfection nor
the desire to achieve it. Should
perfection appear before me, I would be in someone else’s dream with the salt
from my brow stinging my eyes, for my road ends that day.
If you find perfection in this binding, know this; it is you who brought
it to my pages with your personality and uniqueness, not I, for I am but a
turnip in your stew. They say, "perfection
is in the eye of the beholder", as with
love.
Do
you understand what is being said, implied, or described?
If so, I have done my work for you. My
heart will be full if I glance shyly at the shelf holding my thoughts for sale,
and if today I were to see just one volume with much bent and tattered pages whilst its
brethren remain untouched, my nostrils would sting with the pain of welling eyes.
Know either way I am rich today because the same pain would surely inflict me if
I were to see cool, green lichen growing on the same uninteresting volume of
time. I
should thank the first who bent a page, for she started the frenzy of rough
handling the little volume. Interesting
at first, but not cute enough to take home and feed. Fluency in Shakespeare is
no guarantee you will understand and enjoy the finest writers of our time.
To know any night as your reflection in a pool is to waist precious originality.
To know others words more than your own only means you have spent your
life living the dreams of others.
You do not need an ‘A’ in English to participate in the sharing of
stories filled with compassion, humor, and mistakes. When
your listeners ask for your thoughts, rest assured, they will never ask the
literature grade you received in the same breath. Never let swine dictate your passion, let them feed at
the trough and root in the sty, for their stench is the bog that keeps us apart. Even from across the
room, your uniqueness becomes our world. Know
you are special in the eyes of life and those who share your world.
Listen to your heart. Throw
this writing into the darkness and over the bank so the tide can read once you
have gotten your price. Be forgiving
and compassionate when listening to fools,
for even they, more than others, fear
your opinion. They know you ask
nothing when giving it; and therefore, seek nothing in return. If a sheath hangs from
your belt and the hilt of righteousness touches your strong hand, beware
those you protect, for it is not in
the smiting of illiterate fools, rather your hearty laugh which lends
strength to a room! Three
hurrahs, for those who smile at themselves when imperfection crosses the room,
for even a fool recognizes an old friend.
All the best.
RJ