Suggested Audio Candy:
Depeche Mode Enjoy The Silence
As tempted as I am to go all surrealistic and leave this page blank just for the sheer helluvit, I have a duty this day and it isn’t to perplex. You see today, after a brief stint languishing at rock bottom, I find myself in the presence of the closest I currently have to a bona fide mother brain. Certain complex minds we feed from habitually and my associate, whose friends affectionately refer to as Snoopy, is the proud sole-owner of one such pot of delectable honey. The stork flew me here yesterday and the lanky ruffian wasn’t exactly gentle when wrapping me into my swaddling and proceeding to deviate from the path of the crow at a rate of knots I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, leaving me as dazed as I was confused on arrival. I was then left in a crimson Moses basket on his doorstep, the door-bell rang, and this rambunctious messenger scarpered without utterance of a single word. I could have thumped the rapscallion had I not been fifteen minutes late for my burping.
As Snoopy opened the door and quizzically inspected my receptacle, I initially sensed a dash of dismay on his face. 6″1 tall, middle-aged, with greying hair – this sure as shit wasn’t what he ordered on Amazon – as attested by the fist he waved in disgust as the stork took flight once more. However, after the initial disappointment had passed, he scooped me up like an under-wired bra and scurried back inside his domain, clutching his fresh new man-child like the possessive squirrel that he is. I’m not altogether sure, but could’ve sworn I heard the words “Mine. He’s all mine!” along with the customary maniacal laughter as his ocular orbs gyrated wildly in their caverns and an impish grin spread across his cheeks akin to a gleeful bout of pubic crustaceans. Alright you have caught me up to my wrists in scarlet mittens, I may have been blowing a little smoke up your asses as my tale played out a little differently in reality. You see, it actually took a total of two storks to crane-lift me to my chosen sanctuary.
As soon as my funked up baby blues readjusted to their new surroundings and he hosed off any stubborn glazing donated during my descent down the fallopian flume, we got to the real meat and potatoes of why I had been delivered to his abode. You see, certain individuals throughout your life travels you just feel right at home with and it is with a distinct sense of pride most swollen that I accepted my four-day knighthood as Snoopy’s own personal Woodstock and placed myself under his direct supervision. We all know the scrawny little yellow heathen from Peanuts I’m sure. He may well be a pretty pathetic excuse for a bird and hardly what you’d call a frequent flyer, but we love him regardless, affable little punk that he is. Don’t even try telling me that you don’t think Woodstock rocks even a little as you’ll likely hurt my feelings and I’m not averse to sulking you know. Here, take a look at the little fella kicking back in his natural habitat and try telling me he’s not vaguely adorable.
Anyhoots, as I spread my wings and drank in the hazy rays of daylight beneath which all six of my senses were jiving, I assumed baby bird position and squawked a plea in the direction of my marginally more aware beagle buddy. After a nanosecond’s procrastination I opted out of the obligatory morning earthworm and requested instead a solitary word from my companion as inspiration for this very writing exercise. One tiny little adjective would fill my tummy this day; a singular modest mouthful would feed a non-aviator such as Keeper of The Wooden Stock and I knew I could count on a keen thespian such as Snoopy to donate one post-haste.
Ironically the word volunteered was “unsaid” and, no sooner as the word left his parted lips via speech bubble, than I pulled my yellow neck in and stopped trying to catch a glimpse up Peppermint Pattie’s petticoat. It was game-face time, the gauntlet had been laid down, and it was required that I rise to this challenge like the half-witted early bird that I was. Given that flight is a no-no where Woodstock is concerned, I could only trot and trot I did, straight over to my own feathered friend, the Crimson Quill. Somehow, between us, the mission was to come up with something meaningful using this decidedly vague adjective and I’ve never been one to shirk a challenge so here goes Grueheads.
Rightio, no more bird-brained antics from this point forward, it is time for me to say the unspeakable, state the obvious, and lift the veil of ambiguity. I’m not altogether sure how this is going to play out but will take that over tick-box exercises any day of the calendar month and reckon I can knock something up on the quick. To assist, there have been literally gazillions of instances throughout my existence where I have opted to leave things unsaid and exercised harsh self-censorship instead. Funnily enough, it doesn’t happen nearly as much nowadays as I have a tendency to blatantly regard my filter and blurt whatever shows up first on my mind’s slate, no matter how irreverent or incriminate that may be.
This can be seen as offering a little too much insight, giving too much of yourself away. By doing so the mystery dissipates right? Of course not, I believe it encourages even more posers and inquisitive minds will wish to place me under their microscopes and inspect my genetic make-up in closer detail. I welcome this as there is precious little that I wouldn’t be comfortable with placing in the public domain after years of playing the mime artist and feel only too happy to act as guinea-pig in the name of good old-fashioned team spirit. That’s right, you may prod me and poke me, as long as you promise me you’ll tickle my belly once in a while, we’ll be alright. Word to the wise, should my lipstick make an appearance, then try not to be alarmed as that thing has a mind all of its very own and has long since ceased operating under my jurisdiction.
Some folk prefer to hide their true selves away from plain sight, whether intentionally or inadvertently. In many cases they conceal their identity for their entire lives, leaving little more than a parting memoir as indicator as to what lies beneath and often not even that. This seems deeply tragic to me as we not supposed to fly free are we not? I may be grounded currently, but I’ll have a damned good flap nonetheless as it just feels good to shake it all loose once in a while. Once you surround yourself with the people in your life who truly get you, you afford yourself the opportunity to lighten the load on occasion without judgement or assumption sneaking in unwanted and be precisely who you really are. I’d much rather that than hold my cards close to my chest and fritter my right to express myself freely.
Of course, there is something of a balance to be struck and Sofia Coppola’s glorious modern masterpiece Lost in Translation offers a prime example. It had that gloriously ambiguous ending amidst the bustling Hong Kong crowds where Bob whispered a muted parting gift into Charlotte’s ear and the audience weren’t afforded access to the dialogue. Can you imagine the tossed sushi had he hollered “I’ll give you a call when I get back love. Oh and don’t forget to pick up a pregnancy test-kit as one may have snuck into your ovaries”. What isn’t made palpable is left to the imagination and there is no more potent piece of kit than that.
Unspoken understanding is the most beautiful gift that two people can share in my opinion. Comfortable silences can say so much more than shoe-horned dialogue-fests, so long as the two minds are in tune. Too much interaction all at once can create an audible static whereas, a few stolen moments of quiet can speak in a thousand tongues. Then we have the instance when you take that shot and donate those three little words “I love you”. Should I say this, then it is far more gratifying to me not receiving a systematic response as it invariably lacks the spontaneity. In this case, unsaid works just fine with me. As for speaking my mind, well I’d rather do that than censor myself, so long as it has a sense of purpose. For way too long, my lips remained buttoned, and I found myself living some other schmuck’s life entirely. Since writing under my pseudonym, I have finally relocated my true voice, and plan to use it at every given opportunity from this point forward as it just feels wasteful not to. If it gets lost in translation, then so be it, but at least I can say I tried dagnabbit. One thing I will say – if you haven’t got something nice to impart, then I’d suggest opting for unsaid as I, for one, certainly won’t be listening.
Sinning in silence,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014