It seemed like just the other day when I was feeling trapped. I could not get no satisfaction. What came around would not go around. There was a tentative spinning alongside multiple bumps. Exculpatory evidence tended to turn up too late, just after the nick of time. In the eternal give and take, I got took.
The feeling, though, is not unfamiliar. It often starts with a fertile beginning, leading understandably to a plausible center, but then bypasses a good tractable ending. I was caught unaware assuming a prostrate position due to superior forces such as gravity beyond my control. Then the yang twin, who by my reckoning should have been dutifully imprisoned in middle school as the law of man demanded, even though the fucking irresponsible middle school was shut down for two or three months of endless Summer, remarked, “It looks like being a dad is a lot like being a dweeb, no disrespect, because the word I could have chosen to use as many of my peers do most often, is douche.”
I said, “Point taken.”
He said, “What are you doing down there?”
I asked, “How long have you been watching?”
When it becomes unwieldy to admit too much glaring evidence into testimony that might lead to an unsatisfying verdict, I do what many of my learned peers likely do as well. My peers, with all of that valuable experience behind them to rely upon like a sharp pointy object, don’t relish rushing to judgment by naming names. We try hard to do our best to do our duty to turn tricky. I know that I do my darn singular best to deny, deny, deny when no better alternative occurs at every opportunity, often vehemently so, often at great personal risk, even as the rising heat contributes to a burning sensation felt acutely all over.
“It’s a brand new and exciting yoga pose just invented to help clear clogged passageways.”
“For all around cleansing purposes.”
I don’t need to be believed. I don’t mind being mocked. Don’t knock learned behavior. The yang twin left muttering platitudes. But, he left. And I was able to remain. Chalk one up for my side. I breathed, if not deeply, deep enough for me. I believed even more deeply that the Dalai Lama would approve. Sort of.
When the yin twin arrived upon the scene of the accident she said,”You just want to believe what you already believe. But, you can’t know for sure.”
I said, “I’m sure I’m cleansed enough for me.”
“Yoga is Hindu. The Dalai Lama is Buddhist.”
“With all the slick pr hacks he’s got working, and I still don’t know?”
She said, “Is it very painful?”
I said, “You betcha.”
In that way, I was able to successfully continue what I was doing, which was not much. I do it well enough. My spiritual cleansing was worth every penny jingling in my side pocket. As long as no sharp pointy objects are aimed my way, I’m good to go.
Later, while filling the void, I stirred a mix of prepubescent brown beer prior to boiling. A dash of cayenne is also good for cleansing. I wiped away some dirty sweat and ate a peach. Subjugated peaches aren’t what they used to be. You’d think that based upon the bruised and mottled evidence a spiritual peer like douche Putin had taken charge of the means of production. Or Kanye West. What a double downed douche at the bottom of that mixed bag. I stabbed a so-called ripe one with a sharp pointy object and let the fake gooey juices trickle free into bondage.
I feel fortunate to have widespread experience to rely upon when it comes to unfulfilled voids. The sharp points that puncture thought balloons and sensitive skin are not only to be avoided, but escaped. Likewise, the accompanying hot air that singes the skin while running to flee from the threatening thoughts. I’ve also learned to pay any price to avoid bearing any burden that comes at me too fast and furious.
I paid what seemed to me a reasonable sum in bribery to have both teen twins disappear on a busy street and continued my mixing according to principles diagrammed on a wall in an alley I used to frequent at odd hours that slipped into darkness. The most vital ingredient in the mixture included at least one tangy variation of the second most basic building block of the multiverse, the essential clash of contradictions. Contradictions don’t need to take no stinking shit from no fucking nobody, and don’t. A prototypical contradiction may occur when a pair of large stinking butts collide successfully in space with no awareness whatsoever, because success is the solution as we all know to die for, carving a new major asshole out of one, another, or both. Then who knows what? Not no asshole, that’s for sure. The cryptic ingredient may be a seed, a hair, a feather, a wisp. And it may not end there, or anywhere. Proper proportions may be tricky as well, and I am admittedly weak in stemming the flow of leaks that tend to spring from either the third or fourth most basic building block of the multiverse, unforeseen consequences, depending on how outright mistakes are categorized, and by whom, which could be one self-serving reason why I sent the teen twins off to learn more about the art of coping with success in heavy traffic.
As I observed the bubbles continue to expand prior to the inevitable pop, I maintained a safe and sane distance from excessive heat and pressure. One way to escape a trap includes following a known formula that leads to a formidable fortress behind which no sharp points are able to penetrate. But I prefer to improvise without any clear directions that might lead out of the box and disturb the myopia with which I am most familiar. I figure why mess with the record of success that has carried me like a wisp so far.