Win Them Back

Maybe it comes across as mundane. Maybe it comes across as ordinary, everyday. You see it from the corner of your eyes and are not impressed enough to crane your neck, this wraith, this apparition, flitting about in the periphery, always dancing around the space that clouds the boundaries of order and control. This is where the truth really lies, but this is the sort of truth that makes you lie down in fields of clover and piss directly in the air onto your own belly. There are those who are impressed with the implications of this inordinately charged facet of reality, those that take a sliver of intent and expand it into a universe of ornate, diffuse fantasy.

The problem lies within the lenses through which you, the interpreter, view this scenario. Under what passes for everyday knowledge, there are rules that govern the expression of desire through which those that walk among you feel the need to follow. Whenever these motes of meaning are sifted, placed onto an adorned surface, exposed in the blinding light of scrutiny, it should come as no surprise that these very same rules begin to lose their luster. That is a cold truth that hurtles toward you, without mercy, and without sympathy. It would be an act of futility to even attempt to avoid the onslaught, you in your cocoon of subterfuge, your shroud of opacity. When you wear these bifocal lenses, these ridiculous filters, you are creating of yourself an environment of stupendous ignorance. No one approaching anything even vaguely considered reason should tolerate this transgression. No one.

And yet you do, we do, I do. We make concessions, take huge accommodating steps over pools of sensibility, knee deep in the mire of compromise, and we do so readily, happily, and shamelessly. And better still, when the switch is flipped, when the rays of clarity are shone upon you, you react in defense, like a cornered animal. But a wild animal at least stakes a claim to survival. To what ends do you lay your money down? What ultimate purpose is served by your obeisance to nothingness?

We all have our druthers. Granted. We all make choices that are less than stellar. We all opt for the door nailed shut, seeping ugliness beneath, and hideous vapors from the transom. We all make that call at some point, and we all regret it immediately after, all of us, to the one. But it doesn’t stop us from doing it again and again. There is, and damn well should be, a certain amount of license for this sort of stupidity. We are, after all, human, and stupidity is something we take great pride in. Let’s, for the sake of progress, accept that idiom and move on. We are mud fence dumb. As a race, we are bag of hammers dumb, and that’s just a straight up fact. What I’m talking about is a viral level of ignorance that enters a group of minds, like a gathering storm, and infects an unreasonable number of us with the hideous symptoms of its mediocrity.

Music is an odd world in which to pin desire. Loving music, expressing this love, and using this love to influence opinion is potentially dangerous stuff. Time and fucking time again, the ill-advised tastes of a few are inflated and enlarged to such a degree that those floundering in the wake of this tide are forced to endure the misdirection and obfuscation that always follows the initial current. I suppose it’s entirely fair to claim that there is no accounting for taste. The whole trash/treasure duality carries more than a little water, but push that quaint conceit aside and what is left? What is left is a situation as I am describing right now. A vacuum is created from a highly charged atmosphere of insecurity and a hunger for leadership, for guidance. Creatures with eyes coating their bodies lurk in the bushes, notepads in hand, jotting down every breath, every single word that escapes the lips of the other. And on this current rides a wave of compliance. It shouldn’t come so easy, but it always does. It always fucking does.

Entering the kingdom, hand in hand, bags full of murder most foul. Those with the least to convey have the most to share. The clamor for approval rings out like chapel bells on a cold empty night, and the townspeople are held in its thrall. This is a ritual that has played out for countless generations, and doubtlessly for many generations to come. Mark my words.

Let sanity guide you. Let whatever grain of truth you have been able to eke out of this rocky cliff off of which you hang so precariously lead you towards the path of reason. To go any other way is an act of self-exposure too loaded to undertake. With stakes this high, favors are curbed for the cost of comfort. Don’t use your free passes in the opening round. The finish line is miles away and the crowd is not cheering for you anymore. Win them back. Without them you are lost.