One Of Many. Jeremiads and Nickle Phrases. Empty Ringing.
I'm going to let you in on a dirty little secret. Don't you worry though, baby. I've got plenty. I think I can afford to let slip this one of many:
I talk a lot. Moreover, I talk real big. And here's the kicker (Quit dragging your feet and do it already!), I talk way bigger than I actually am. Underneath this armor of calloused disregard lies oh so very soft flesh. (Total metaphor; I'm hard and chiseled as a hard and chiseled mountain).
I just got back from a day back home in Santa Clarita. As much as I poise and posture myself with drawn out jeremiads and nickle phrases of how much I loathe the place, it honestly felt good to be home. And therein lies the rub.
I could waste byte upon byte of intarweb reiterating the convoluted knots in my heartstrings, revulsion and wistful nostalgia warping and weaving into one big tapestry of confused longing, but I will spare you. I'm sure you've heard enough on the subject by now. If not, come on over. I'll bombard you over a finger and a half of whiskey.
Suffice it to say that there is just something about the place that still twists in my chest cavity (The worm in the apple...? That's not entirely right, but metaphor never really gets there anyway). Street after street, gaudy eyesores of Christmas decorations spewed out onto eaves, ceilings, lawns, anywhere that there is a speck of space-- even the goddamn trees for god's sake. Every house vying to be brighter, more cheerful, more Holly Jolly Christmas Time!! than the one before it, unaware of the concept of an upper limit. Like rows and rows of red-cheeked children clamoring into the crisp air for a long-since uncaring mother to look at what they made! Look at what we made! Look, Mom! You're not looking! A place that doesn't grasp the concept of the horizon. And that even though you can't exactly see, there is a whole world beyond it, bigger than high school football and the new Mercedes Benz dealership-- a drab concrete gravemarker for the old baseball fields, interred for the sake of wealth and status and wealth and status.
The charm is not unlike that of the autistic child at your church. The little boy who just doesn't seem to understand when enough is enough, and keeps on screaming anyway. You just want it to stop; you know it won't happen, but you want so badly for him to understand and just fucking stop. But once the cries have died in your ears, the empty ringing leaves you wondering what the hell made you listen quite so closely in the first place.
I talk a lot. Moreover, I talk real big. And here's the kicker (Quit dragging your feet and do it already!), I talk way bigger than I actually am. Underneath this armor of calloused disregard lies oh so very soft flesh. (Total metaphor; I'm hard and chiseled as a hard and chiseled mountain).
I just got back from a day back home in Santa Clarita. As much as I poise and posture myself with drawn out jeremiads and nickle phrases of how much I loathe the place, it honestly felt good to be home. And therein lies the rub.
I could waste byte upon byte of intarweb reiterating the convoluted knots in my heartstrings, revulsion and wistful nostalgia warping and weaving into one big tapestry of confused longing, but I will spare you. I'm sure you've heard enough on the subject by now. If not, come on over. I'll bombard you over a finger and a half of whiskey.
Suffice it to say that there is just something about the place that still twists in my chest cavity (The worm in the apple...? That's not entirely right, but metaphor never really gets there anyway). Street after street, gaudy eyesores of Christmas decorations spewed out onto eaves, ceilings, lawns, anywhere that there is a speck of space-- even the goddamn trees for god's sake. Every house vying to be brighter, more cheerful, more Holly Jolly Christmas Time!! than the one before it, unaware of the concept of an upper limit. Like rows and rows of red-cheeked children clamoring into the crisp air for a long-since uncaring mother to look at what they made! Look at what we made! Look, Mom! You're not looking! A place that doesn't grasp the concept of the horizon. And that even though you can't exactly see, there is a whole world beyond it, bigger than high school football and the new Mercedes Benz dealership-- a drab concrete gravemarker for the old baseball fields, interred for the sake of wealth and status and wealth and status.
The charm is not unlike that of the autistic child at your church. The little boy who just doesn't seem to understand when enough is enough, and keeps on screaming anyway. You just want it to stop; you know it won't happen, but you want so badly for him to understand and just fucking stop. But once the cries have died in your ears, the empty ringing leaves you wondering what the hell made you listen quite so closely in the first place.
posted by Unknown at 9:20 PM
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