Bings
By Rialto Jack
Some time ago a friend said, “to be a great writer you need to read the works of the greats. As an example, she offered up Shakespeare. I replied, “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 enjoy life and make my own translations and interpretations of that medium. The euphoric scent of flowers and sorrow of love will test my senses in due time. To donate ones life recanting another’s testament of miracles is laziness and sinful waste of so precious a breath! However, men and women who spend a great deal of their lives gathering information 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. The men and women of curiosity, science, and search are magnificent for sacrificing a kiss for their endeavors, don't you think? 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, yet I have nothing as magnificent to offer as clues to explain loves fever. 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, and is familiar.” I never want to hear “oh, he writes like Shakespeare”; as an abused runaway, my breath would not return. Hearing my uniqueness is but another’s folly would greatly sadden even me and the warmth of shame would rush to my head. 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 which 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. Only a lazy pig would cherish so simple a thing as one describing 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 while sucking nectar himself? The feat was not at all, for what else was there? Favorable opinions from those stuffing snuff up their noses to hide the aromatic smell of dried feces emanating from the unwashed cheeks of their asses was the prize? Smelly, overindulgent pigs were the audience. This was the 'nod' Shakespeare begged from across the room? The stench of plagues hovered like morning fog at the edge of their great lawns and yet like a thief of life, someone whispering yesterdays wicked their passion and compassion from their fellow man! These are the people who are going to set my curriculum and standard for what is and what should be, I think not. For I have always felt sorry for those ignorant of life with only the oddity of their self-inflicted position of reason tainted by the incest of innocence. I truly pity the absence of participation by the ignorant wealthy who feed off true imagination, and wonder in their silks as evolutionary man rots in the same hallowed ground on an illegal sunny knoll. The same is 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 do not open these covers and expect a ghost in bloomers! 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 for society. They cast a wicked smile your way because like the crow they seek carrion. Know this; the crow only feeds on that which is injured and unable to fly. As I watch from 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 cheap date, I am whom 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. Moreover, whilst thou may toss and turn, the seat is purchased; know tonight we share a stage. “To sped 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 mist 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 that wets your eyes? 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 and know I have disappointed yet another than to think my ramblings are liars tugging favor! As you thumb these pages, surely you know perfection dwells in another's hands, and these views garner attention from a heavy rain? 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. As with love, they say, "perfection is in the eye of the beholder". 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 little 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 passion. 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 and reading fools, for even they, more than others, fear your opinion. They know you ask nothing when giving it; and 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. After all, humor and grief take us all down different roads and to experience the journey through another's eyes is forsaking your individualism and a tarnish to your uniqueness. All the best. RJ
past
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 and 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,
the ignorant, pagans, and wealthy died! They're ignorance and use of
monies to pay other sweat hogs 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 in their silks
as evolutionary man rots in the same hallowed ground on an illegal sunny knoll.
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
#2.
Bings…
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 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 I miss the blush of her cheek, why breath? Men and
women possess unique knowledge's, and unique to their psyche, unique visions of
what is; this keeps us viral, supple in our youth. Often, the summer of life has
come and gone, and interpretations of life by others are the dried leaves of
winter. All humans posses life experiences and individually make unique
interpretations of those experiences the rest of us have not. Their writings are
theirs, let them keep that which they have spent their lives searching for
someone to tell. Instead of a simple, precious, unique note of affection towards
you or I, most would rather breath as sheep, and repeat the words of dead. In a
chorus they sing “most great writers follow the examples of other great writers,
structure, basic ’flow’, etc.”, and on and on. Arrogantly, yet truthful to the
ear, 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, they are indeed, my writings. 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”.
Even in my rags, am I not equal to compassion? I am not the rose you take home.
Like so many petals, you will not find my pages laying on your table top in the
morning. I need no sweet water to whisper to you at night. My fragrance is in
your hands. Truly, don’t you know by now I would be crushed upon hearing my
uniqueness, ….in your words…. was another's dream. I would rather hear the
ordinary call out for attention..."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; but I'll not despair, for I have
his rag with witch to bath, Ha Ha! 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 lazy bastard who knows not the scent of one flower, and pays to hear it’s
description!...Is it not enough to experience that brief moment, without a
hiring 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? 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
this is all they seek. 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 if I were to fear the submissive mind control teachings of clergy, to
see perfection, my road would end 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, perhaps a mingled scent
of spring to entice, but not rare enough to take home to dine on. Not delicate
enough to add to your stew? 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 waste precious originality. To know and understand
others words more than your own only means you have spent your life living the
dreams of others, ignoring the most precious, listening not to your greatest
critic. 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