Upon Creating “Mister Convenient”

Alone, I sit. My right ankle resting on its counter, left thigh. The clock is running, my income is perpetuating, and I’m scribbling on a legal pad something about fire or something. The growing flames are contained before me in a rust-red metal barrel. The birds are making their songs and I realize, surfacing from my hidden reality of who-knows-what, that the song stuck in my head is so foreign to me and the birds sound more real. Closer to home and nearer at heart, I put the yellow piece of paper in my dirty jeans and I finish the cold gas-station coffee in two swigs.

Work is returned to, and my sobering intoxication of forgetting memories is, and will forevermore be, past. Throughout the day, I tend to my phone and the materials it provides for a quick thought. Mister Convenience, I craft from the sloshy dark waters of mind. Mister Convenience and his slip through karma, achieving the highest state a man can reach in this life: Perpetual Luck. I feel better, writing all this down, for it felt as if a dream were slipping between my fingers. Words always rearrange what I had in my head, but all the better. I’m not using them, let the words speak their lies. They are only of use to retell the story, and to make vivid my next stories via the art of self reflection.

Like editing a novel (something I have never done), the story is made creative and colorful after telling it over. When one remembers, he does no such thing. Only, his present moment defines his past. My morning of writing and downing cold coffee by a fire while getting paid was nowhere near as satisfying as spelling it out with those words.

What more would I like to say about this dream I am living before it extinguishes itself in its own ashes? Well, she made me smile, like most days. That is enough to remember her by. I love them all, up there on the swiveling pedestals of office chairs. They hold true their virtue, dudes with wooed attitudes and swoon moods for crude fortitude. Me? I’m an empty shell of the dreamer, watching with mild interest as his creations dance around him. Or, and perhaps more likely, I’m the awkward guy at work that people don’t know how to approach and thus pity.

I am awkward, as if I don’t fit right in these shoes I wear. Actually, my work boots do look super bulkitous on me. Anyway, the metaphor stands. I’m a weird dude, who packs his lunch and says things like, “God, I need to relax my brain.”

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Mister Convenient

And there he goes, off to intuitively help another wandering and semi lost soul in a world of blind favors. He asks none and takes less, believes naught and expects even less.

He is the most convenient man alive.

What does he do? He was nothing before the accident. A lowly maniac damned to somnolence alongside the rest of sleepwalking humanity. But the accident changed everything. He has seen through the curtain of insanity and beyond, seeing the soul as one shifts ones eyes to see the glass and not the images on the other side.

He could have been a king when he returned, a prophet at least. But he chose a life of quiet indifference. Still, his dense wisdom of All seeps through the thin membrane that is the physical world, granting him a miraculous ability of being in the right place at the right time.

He is the most convenient man alive.
But Mister Convenient simmered in a lonely pool of tedious inconvenience inside his skin. Only Everybody loved him, truly and really. And Everybody would be a dultz, in Mister C’s opinion, but he hadn’t opinions. You see, he believed that Everybody was only one person, and that person was a poltergeist.

God was skitzo and had a bad habit of thinking aloud.

There was none that was separate or super, and so none stood out separately or superior in Mister Convenient’s unyielding, half-shuttered eyes. So he was a true virtue to Everybody (the faceless ass, he) and Mister Convenient had to be none other than the most convenient man alive.

It’s about a Mister E

As a child, Isis o’Cyrus was never alone. With her father not yet smoked out of his study, the house was hers. With the neighborhood loud in a chattering, whistling, quiet sort of way, the forest was hers. She hadn’t met another being that stood on two legs since the almost absent memory of her first years alive. Yet, she was never alone.

Mister E was not always human. He was born wrapped in mud and moss, sang to of the sweetest lullabies by a Poet’s daughter. Raised through the hardships of a misunderstood loneliness, he never really grew into a skin crutched with bones. He remained where the lightest of thoughts remain, on the wind. He smiled and the sun shone through the forest’s window, or the house’s canopy. He laughed and the wind tickled the sides of her bedroom wall. He cried and the world was watered. He hiccupped in sobbing sadness and the sky cracked and rumbled.

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