When The Beauty Way Calls

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“It just gets kinda creepy, it’s so orderly and efficient and insulated from the real world,” ~ Carl Hiassen

And that leaves me where? Oh, yeah, right. It’s another lovely morning here on the mesa  just north of town. I have to go into town this morning but it ain’t happenin’ yet. More coffee, more time, and me sitting here trying to understand the exact meaning of the word “and” and just how I can apply it in a creative manner. Don’t expect results any time soon. I don’t.

I got word of a scandal last evening. Don’t ya just hate it when that happens? If social justice has anything to do with it, all things shall be well. That’s why they call ’em accidents – someone got caught. I could go on here, weaving ever so many more vague strands into the fabric of an episode that would be better ignored for now. But I am still wrapped up in the “beauty” phase of the morning. Things are real up here, just out of town, and I like to milk that for all it’s worth before I steel myself for the hyperreality of town. What is hyperreality? Take the word “hype” and paste it down firmly on the streets and floors you walk upon today. Have a look around. Maybe even have a look at the seat you are sitting on. Do you feel like a cartoon charter yet? No? Maybe you are well-adapted already. I envy that.

I don’t know how or why it came to mind but I thought of Carl Hiassen’s oddly lovable treatise on Disney World this morning, Team Rodent. This lead me to thinking about Umberto Eco’s essays on hyperreality, Adventures in Hyperreality. Okay, okay, you are seeing my intellectual side. That side used to be in pure form, as a way to spend a portion of life doing what one likes to do, and seeing what one likes to see. Now, that side serves as a form of therapy, to keep me from going over the rail when depression assaults me in an unacceptable way. At that point, over the rail and soaked in a sea of yuck, I would likely shout, “This world friggin sucks!”. Do ya catch my drift now? I thought so. At times like these the difference between a depressed person and an angry person is that the angry person does not become mired. As the brilliant comedian Stephan Wright so wisely said, “Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm”. That sums it up. Let’s move on, k?

Representations, suppositions, and covert commercial ventures rankle me on frequent occasions. It’s the difference between authenticity and facsimile that is the culprit. The valiant efforts to create lore, when lore already exists, is . . . I don’t know what it is! I could call this emergent dynamic ” formative mythology”, that which spins new archetypes at a rate that makes the  steadiest head spin, and spin is the goal. Don’t question this exercise in hyperreality or you will become the victim of disdain. I know, I know, victimhood is a choice. In the example I give here victimhood is my prime choice. You can’t resist without resisting. If you catch my drift. I don’t  . . . oh never mind.

Ravens soar, finches sing, and Rosie the cat, once again, is sound asleep at my side. The Beauty Way calls my name. I can’t go there, for I must get into town to get my broken down car over to the mechanic, which means a towing company and a company which fixes motor vehicles. I’ll have to ride a bicycle seven miles to get there. Talk about irony! Woof, says the dog handler. There is nothing more appropriate to say. And so I resort to the language of canines. At least I am in good company. Aho!

With a scandal hovering on the border of my skinny life I feel daunted and  inclined toward the hermit’s way. Maybe even with a bottle of cheap wine. But I won’t go there. I’ve hidden out, metaphorically, enough in the past two years, ever since my chosen career on toward retirement was yanked out from beneath my feet. That pratfall signaled my descent into depression, and unhealthy, unwieldily behavior. I now, just now, am beginning to rise again, out of the spinning muck of quicksand, and danged if I come to find that the world of society and commerce has continued to march on toward rankness, and facsimile. Why can’t we all get along? I know the answer to that profound question, but don’t press me, k? Mine is but one answer. Opinion breeds experts, at a rate that rivals the rate of reproduction among our feline friends, in this brave new world. Bravado? No such thing anymore. Out the window. Down the drain. Taken to the recycling center, where it will end up been ground into particles and mixed with asphalt in an attempt to create streets of gold. Good luck with that! That’s what I say. Don’t mind me. I’m not an expert. Not anymore. It hurts too much.

Peace out, y’all. Goof gloriously.

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