The first acorn to hit me on the head, point first, traveling at a velocity of incalculable speed in a multiverse in which no forceful entities such as accidents exist, hurt. Puncture wounds are funny like that. The intensity wracked my mortal soul along with my twisted innards, but good. It felt like the precursor to an even sweatier devil wind due to arise on the horizon via graphic global warming and the wrath of one bad-ass cartoon god, take your pick. Though this initial acorn was not the size of a large igneous rock it might have been. The next was no different. I not only did not know speed but I did not know distance. I never did and I never will. Not by counting, or conniving, and not by hoarding. Though the blood started as a mere trickle, as blood will, the potential was vast. It was so hard for me to figure what was what. I had suspicions, though, big ones. Cascading cosmic dust, converted by a catalyst, hurtling leaps and bounds, a twofer? I thought, could be. I thought, why not? Common brain injuries are funny like that. I tried laughing my ass off but that hurt too.
One honorable ancient practice passed down indigenously that included uplifting thine eyes and rubbing thy raw spot with shit stained brown dirt did not alleviate the pain. Micro-results were invisibly scant. It shoulda oughta been betta but the god of the good guys seemed to be mightily busy fomenting conflict elsewhere. My flimsy blood did not come up to the standards of a pure enough boil it would appear likely. I had been accused of laughing my smart-ass ass off too much for my own good in the so-called past of illusion and this was more proof. I rejected the sentiment as a hollow warning, though. And not for the first time. As if. Nor did it ease the pain to call out for mama or papa or even James Brown. It felt like all harm, all foul, all over. No shoulda coulda woulda boogie neither. Where there is no beginning and no end, which is all there is, and not only here and now, how many more honorable chances will there be to make the same mistake twice?
When HHUMH thee tawny owl appeared on a branch of a majestic redwood tree with his unsurpassed timing, I asked earnestly, “What did I do that was such an egregious error to cause such a disproportional clash and clamor of cosmic dust? Why is it all me all the time, or whatnot?”
Thee tawny owl said, “Look at your mess you’re making. You still here thinking it’s all about you until you’re gone when you already there. I’ma hafta be up all day laughing my ass off until night.”
Despite superficial appearances, thee tawny owl appeared to be put out. I held on gamely to my appendages, expecting a rocky ride. The wind was picking up refuse left behind and I was dragging up sagging bones from the rear. But from a distance I considered that the blood might be mistaken for a rash, no biggie. Chalk up another half-point for myopia. Except I was wrong.
The blood bubbling beneath the surface would not go away. I conscientiously scan the many infallible words of religious zealots on the Internet each morning while eating my granola prior to a session on my spanking new cutting-edge and state-of-the-art-toilet, which is pronounced tres differently, and I know that efficient blood flow is a condition of good mental health practices until some new version of an older nut job surfaces to wipe away the other guy, not me, thee or thine, but I was becoming concerned, seriously.
I am also aware due to deep interpersonal study that laughter in many cases is just another means of expressing scorn. I carry a chronically mixed bag of trinkets as a consequence of truth to ward off zealous marauders who usurp space with bountiful attitude, attitude, attitude. Pushers of rising expectations may be the worst among many imaginable killers who go unpunished. Think Kanye West wearing tight white briefs defending the fort. Unless it’s more religious zealots undermining foundations. Less is the new more, too. And not only that.
Now that the current in, formerly out back in the day, is back big time, while carbon black and pallid white continue to reaffirm strong faith at the chilly institutional poles where douche Putin and Bristol Palin can be observed getting along like crabs colonizing crotches, and ripe green is the new pale gold, and shit brown shines like a desert blossom, and religions continue to be politics, and politics continue to be crap, the Type A holy rollers spinning on the Ferris wheel at glitter gulch prior to expurgation by shock jocks on Madison Ave. can get down to brassy, tacky business, spewing doubloons.
“Make or break.”
“Brake or pedal.”
“More or both.”
“Trigger or barrel.”
“Finger or eye.”
“You break, you buy.”
If HHUMH thee tawny owl is right, which he is, was, and will be, and I have been misled to fervently believe due to dull faith, jackboots, and gunpowder that it’s all about me, without whom acorns don’t rise to become oaks and said same oaks don’t fall in forests and ebbs don’t flow in seas and apples don’t bob and cherries don’t drop when red and juicy, when even I can see it’s not like that, not even close, like duh, then what the fuck. It’s not a question. It never was.
“Who said that?”
“Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”
“I like my ripe apples green.”
“I like to eat it raw.”
“Ain’t no stoppin’ us now.”
“As my god is my witness.”
“Eat at the trough.”
“On your knees.”
“Not yours, mine.”
“Who are you?”
“Them’s fightin’ words.”
“Say it again.”
“Say it a little louder.”
“Sweet or sour?”
“Please remove that finger from that trigger.”