Town of Tradition

Once upon a time there was Tradition.

In this little town called Tradition, there were laws. They were laws placed down by the forefathers and foremothers that guided the dear children into narrow channels of thought. Laws that said “No! Never! Thou shalt!”.

There were always the laws on what not to do, where not to go, how not to be. Never had the inhabitants of Tradition thought of what to do with themselves, but rather instead they were too caught up in what not to do with themselves.

Oh the minds of the inhabitants of Tradition! Why were they so reluctant to see the morning sun? Why were they so unafraid of suffering and unnecessary turmoil?

I think, it is because they knew not how to live their lives. They only knew how not to live it.

So, of course, when one dreamer woke up and asked himself what he truly wanted, what it truly was to be, what the laws were there for, and if he could live his life beyond “you shall not”, of course the inhabitants of Tradition made him an idol. Of course they did this only after he was safely put away in the ground.

In Tradition, there is an illusion. There is the illusion of freedom, first and foremost. You’re free, but only if you live in Tradition, by Tradition, with Tradition, under Tradition. Only the birds could be above Tradition. The laws set parameters, the parameters set Tradition.

The people created gods who created the world which created the people. In this circle, they trap themselves with belief. There is never just the river which provides for the town. There is never just the garden which feeds the people. There are names and names give people false hope of control. They call the river Arthus and thus they feel secure. They call the garden Lopitat and thus feel as tenders to the fruit they eat.

Pride comes from that for which you work. But pride leaves you beaming and drunk of your own self. It clouds the people of Tradition like Irish fog. The rabbits that had lived in the garden before it was Lopitat are now thence treated as trespassers and are killed or run out. The wasps, which had built their nests before human was even building its loincloth, are now thence burned with fire (a discovery humanity treats as, due to pride, an invention).

In Tradition, with the river and the garden, the people drowned themselves with drinking. They suffocated and choked themselves with eating. The sky was heavy for he who came about to question beyond the words “thou shall” and “thou shall not”.


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.”

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.



The Passerby held a very average face that shined with the utmost monotony. Nobody stopped him for conversation while he walked, foot by foot, down the path of dull suchness. He was the one the angry pulled their anger over, if he were to be in the wrong step at the wrong corner, for he had the sort of timidity that reflected the world her own face. Children looked at him only for a moment, but he was so much in a dim state that awareness never fully drank him in.

Mister Abandon, we like to call him, for there is nothing that he doesn’t delve into with absolute, keen abandon. His greatest quality is the having no qualities about him. He is the blank and expressionless moon, able to perfectly ricochet the white light of a greater deity than the surface of the earth ever could, what with all her beautiful blemishes. Mister Abandon, won’t you tell us your secrets of an open heart?

Never does he use more than one set of utensils in the morning, noontime, or evening, for he does each chore when it arises and never a second out of procrastination. How like a flower Mister Abandon is, opening his petals only when the sun will have them and never a moment more. For this purpose, he only has one bookmark. There is no pile of open books by his bed. And from that, I, certainly, could learn something.

He could never be a writer, for there would be too much to think about. Instead, he would make the perfect human being. That is not to say that he wouldn’t completely succeed in every task he put his heart onto, because he would. To be the creature of intuitive intelligence, Mister Abandon exceeds far from the extent of my pen’s reach. Though he is defined by the constant decongestion of a mere twenty-six English characters, Mister Abandon will forever thrive through the swaying web that I, the spider, has spun.

I would very much like to spend a road’s trip with this man. I feel that having a creature who divides himself into the music and multiplies himself into the scenery would not complain about how much longer we have. He would not think nostalgically back at the beautiful landscapes we left behind, because those are behind us. He would be right where our car is, his awareness not having the audacity to venture before the wheels of the vehicle.



            “You can learn to talk with anything.”


“Not with words, of course! No! Words are strictly human. Well, you need to ask yourself what is fueling those words. Then, find what is beyond human and speak with the world anew.”

She remembered these words as if they were knocking on the back door of her mind. This was so unbelievable, and so she didn’t believe it.

“Ha!” She laughed into the face of her illusion. Her shimmering incarnate of insanity.

“Almost,” it said. “Ha—eel. Ha’el. Now you.”

“What the hell,” she said to herself.

“Not hell. Ha’el.”

It was a demon. She knew. A manifestation of some deep dark part of her madness. Oh how sick she now knew a madman really was. How unreal his reality.

“You’re a panther.”

“A jaguar, yes.”

“How am I speaking to you?”

The cat laughed with a thought, but yawned with its jaws. “This is getting old. I thought you had brains, hue-man.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she murmured. There was nothing more that she wanted than to wake up.

“Use it then.”

What Was Once a Great People

            Mankind was renamed.

Windless, the mountains called them. Coatless, the mammals said. Gods, the small ones realized. Anything else, though, called them nothing at all, for calling something anything was one of the inventions of man. They broke themselves down so often, like the shattering of a great mosaic, that even the child looked through eyes that called themselves by a different name than the grown man observing from the wooden pedestals.

I know not what they called themselves. These names that they gave themselves. I know only that they were intelligent. Words are magic, so my father thought. They can be given to (let’s say) a tree, yes. But the magic is that words can then bend that tree. I have experienced that magic first hand.

The Poet, my father, gave me a name. Isis O’cyrus. I am the only one with a name. He was honored and called the Poet only after his death and his books’ success. Nobody knows how to read. Nobody speaks. Words are gone in this world. I write this in vague hope that somebody will learn the magic of language and can change his world. To others, this is secret and it is mathematical and it is sorcery, so therefore it is forbidden.

            I don’t name anything before I write it. I give these a title only a year later. That’s the freedom of a blank page. It can became whatever it wants to.


We have walking around with us creatures that slither out of the shimmering twilight of our dreamlands. In the golden chills of a perfect harmony, a musical druid comes into our hearts and tickles our ribs with warm laughter.

But I digress. Words are meant to be harvested and prepared in a way that nourishes our hungry hearts, but recently I’ve been in the fields strangling them with iron teeth. The chemicals that I try to put into these words leak into my lucid days and poison my appetite.

Moments where a light opens inside me and my fingers twitch for the keyboard… these moments are slippery. Contemplation is my mistress and music is our bedroom. At the dusk of my sentence, if there is no crescendo in my heart nor applause in my mind, it gets burned by the sunset of my delete key. In the beginning there was a blinking line. Then, a voice opened the void and said, “let this blinking thing write!”

That is why I stopped my train wreck of thought above.

Characters dance between my ears from the familiar notes of a loving melody. The concordant dance between tires on asphalt and speakers on silence is my ballet. I am merely an astonished audience as full scenes are produced behind my eyes and between my ears. Lights reflecting from the black of the streets bow to the shivering ballads that tap on my ear drums.

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