I have this percolating in my noggin, I got an itch that I can’t quite scratch. I try to reach it with matchsticks but it only leads to burn marks. My quirky cornucopia of colloquialisms fails to tell the torrid tale of two star crossed twitching torrents of tumult. I think long and hard on the subject of trains and towers, of u-boats and boilermakers. I toss this mental salad with the precision of the world’s greatest chef, toss me my spice weasel.

What’s it all mean? What’s it all say? What the fuck does it matter at the end of the day? Nothing, everything, or all the empty spaces in-between? I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. I suppose it is like most things best said in the words of the true bard not the trembling faltering verse that I pen trying to honor that insurmountable Nom D’Gare, I lilt in the light sometimes. But as the Bard said “A Tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.” That is the truth of these chaotic tirades, and yet you all seem to comment most on my most mixed-up melodic meanderings. Perhaps you like the view from your computer of this ever present stream of conscious madness and unmitigated merriment and malaise. You enjoy the contradiction, the taint of the devil and the hand of God working together. Aye me… I don’t belong here.

So here we are again my dearest friends and curious passers bye. How we do stir this melting pot of love and hate, of good and evil, of past and future. Ah time, now there is a bastard rife for parody. How strange the way we view time, how tainted our perceptions. Might I metaphor for a while, won’t you join me?

The past is our Ex, our mistakes, the sum or our scars. She once took us to the heights, we lusted, loved, got off, stained the sheets, and when it was all over the bitch stabbed you and took your wallet. Oh what lessons we learn, oh how often we see ourselves as the sum of our mistakes. It is our past that looks out at us in the mirror through darkened eyes and spiraling scars. Our past is the razor we use to cut ourselves in the now, the one we use to slash at the present.

The Present is the new love, the new lust, the new addiction, the new reason to get out of bed in the morning. The Present is the good girl, the one we should marry ourselves to, the one we should embrace each day with open arms and open hearts. We should court her, she is worth it, and she is now. And she wants us to love her so badly it hurts. And oh how we hurt her. Oh her we toss her around, oh how we cut her with the knife our past left in our side. Oh how we take it all out on her, she who only wants our love. Can you see her sitting there; there is no better time than now. But alas it is not now that our eyes are cast; it is not to the Madonna in our beds that we cling. Alas we are smitten by the worst of tarts, the most intoxicating of strumpets. She is the future.

Oh Future, thou damnable tart. How beautiful the promise of tomorrow. How we cling to her whiles. How lay deeply entranced in her bed of lies. At least our past is revealed; at least we know she’s a whore. But the future, oh how she dances in her fine linens and jewels. God she is beautiful, god she is sexy, and she over throws us. She makes us forget the kind and gentle present, the maiden who waits for our gaze. And She is the worst of harlots the Future. For she is all promise that need never be proven. She is beautiful only from a far, she is illusion and lies, and its no surprise that we follow her movements so, how can you not. She promises tomorrow, tomorrow you will wrap yourself in golden fleece, sup with the gods, and lie with the most radiant of maidens. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… Aye me, I don’t belong here.

It’s all bullshit, bailiwick, and balderdash. And it’s time we call that spade a spade, that strike a strike, and that trifling bitch a trifling bitch. Cause here is the strait dope guys and dolls, Lads and lassies, Ladies and Germs. The future is an illusion. Tomorrow will always be tomorrow. And so long as you stand amazed, gazing deep into those eyes of hers and losing yourself in the cyclone of her hips, you will never take a look at what really matters, who really loves you, what’s really important… The Present. The Madonna, the girl that feeds you and takes care of you. The one that takes all that abuse from you when you cut her with the shards of the past and the lust of the future. Hang up your binoculars my friends, put to rest your tainted dreams, and embrace her fully without reservation and without hesitation. Embrace her for everything she is, love her for everything she is. Make of her an honest woman, and don’t you ever raise your hand to her again. It’s only you that you are hurting. Because so long as you neglect her there is no future, there is no tomorrow, there is only the repetition of mistakes already made. There is only doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. There is only madness.

So get yourself the flower shop and pick up a bouquet. Embrace today, love the present, make it everything you want to be. Take the here and now in your arms and tell it “Baby… You’re the greatest.”

Don’t wait.

This entry was posted on Friday, February 15th, 2008 at and is filed under J.J. Sunshine's. You can follow any responses to this entry through the
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