Equal parts snickering and jibbering, flouncing and denouncing, partying and Martying and sipping and tipping have led us to this culminating moment, and this revelatory juncture alone will fix us up with the karmic indifference we should inevitably come to view as necessary, should we ever put on roller skates and glide down the lakeshore on the manmade path designed for smooth wheeled transport (nothing more, nothing less). That day will come only when we’ve reached the conclusion that our soul clarity is above average, and yadda yadda yadda, here’s some more hippy dippy rhetoric to be restricted to only eight select individuals on the planet, each division roughly the equivalent of a slice of a New York pie and only half as appetizing. The other people who occupy space on our same plane of existence will only surmise their positions on the karmic totem pole and wander–trudge–through the rest of the week with no common purpose readily apparent to them, lost to be found once the tide comes in.
The eggs of the common jellybird are prized more than those of a stork, ptarmigan or even the elusive sweater-wearing snoot pigeon. You’d think that these eggs would be valued for their culinary value, but they’re practically inedible (more of a collector’s item). So far, over 9,351 different distinct colors of jellybird egg have been discovered, with no apparent end to the hue differentiation. The lacquered version of these eggs is the most common, but fossilized ones fetch the highest market value by far. Genuine fossilized jellybird eggs are quite rare but not unheard of, as the species has always been highly adaptable, flourishing since the early Paleocene, leaving treasures behind for us to find. Recently, a suspicious influx of fossilized jellybird eggs has flooded the market, baffling experts around the world. There have not been any significant findings in the recent past that would justify such a surge, yet nobody can tell the difference between these numerous new artifacts and their scarcer counterparts that have been accumulating since we humans took an interest in their preservation. Someone must have perfected a method for fossilization on demand, or, perhaps, there’s truly no such thing as a genuine fossilized jellybird egg, implying that all the most valuable specimens were planted. Planted by whom, we may never know. It’s only a matter of time before religious zealots claim that God placed the eggs in the earth as a means of testing our faith and jumpstarting the Easter tradition that Christians hold so near and dear to their hearts.
The dream of a lifetime
stood up for days
as the saving grace
of my eternal consciousness,
even though I couldn’t
for the life of me figure out
exactly what happened
or why a chicken
with an alarm clock head
hopped straight into an electrified fence
and became a bucket of extra crispy
from a place called Kalamata Dried Chickbeaks–
a subsidiary of Ten Pin Alley Industries.
The stalwart lemon scoundrel pimped out his favorite seashell collection for a day of ease at the local confetti merchant’s egregious beach house.
Seven gin and tonics and a piña colada graced his lips before the evening was through, and his precious chest of abalone changed hands for the first time in fourteen years.
A celebration was in order. Confetto McFetti called up his favorite mariachi band and lit all the loose champagne corks ablaze with his trusty acetylene torch. The neighbors had nothing to say about the festivities; they owed that eccentric man next door a couple of favors.
I flew the coop; took on a couple extra feathers under the brim of my cap and another in the loop of my shoelace, passengers on a journey across the Midwest. My foot feather dropped off at the world’s largest ball of twine, satisfied to become a tourist’s quarry. The other two held on for dear life as the Great Plains beckoned me to continue my arbitrary geographical survey. Not until I reached the Rockies did they think about dislodging. As I rose ever higher to avoid the jagged peaks, I noticed a hesitation. Just when I thought they didn’t have the guts, both feathers dropped into the domain of a billy goat clan and I waved goodbye. Still soaring, I questioned my motives for the flight: why did I even agree to go this far, and shouldn’t I just turn around? Days of nonstop flight can wear on you, even in a dream. I cut my losses and headed back, amazed that I hadn’t lost my lucky cap.
T: “I’m sick and tired of this situation, constantly running around and spitting out rhetoric at every person I see, able-bodied or otherwise. Who knows, if they can’t perform daring feats on a high wire, that doesn’t mean they don’t know how to recruit that kind of talent.”
R: “What the hell are you yammering about? Tightrope walking?”
T: “Yes, tightrope walking. Some consider it to be vastly more important than the entire field of biology, you know.”
R: “Are you referring to the French family of wire walkers?”
T: “Well, they’re definitely included, but they’re certainly not the only ones who find the art of high-octane balancing to be more important than life itself. Believe me, there are a lot of them out there.”
R: “If by ‘a lot’ you mean a couple of dozen, then I’m sure you’re correct. Don’t go making this into a whole thing just to show how much you like tightrope walking–no, scratch that, spectating while others walk the tightrope.”
T: “A ‘whole thing’, you say?”
R: “Yes, hijacking the conversation to give you the upper hand, or what you think happens to be the upper hand, when in actuality you’re just yammering about something that probably came up in a dream, and you can’t tell the difference between dreaming and waking anymore. I mean, I haven’t seen you running around in years.”
T: “Maybe this did come to me in a dream. So what? Surely you’re not discounting the importance of dreams and their power to influence the waking world. I don’t have any examples of this, but I instinctively know that some of the best minds of all time made serious breakthroughs after having dreams and applying them to their lives.”
R: “Yeah, that’s how the periodic table was developed by Mendeleev. I happen to know that you’re not one of the best minds of all time, sorry to day. Just stick to your day job.”
T: “What an original witticism. Can you at least admit that you’re not much of a genius either? All you can seem to do is knock me down when I try to explore new scenarios.”
R: “Yeah, stupid scenarios.”
Cheech Marin’s “Born in East L.A.” Blares over the PA system, and the nuns—usually solemn, devout in their convent habits—bust moves across the cloisters, moving more freely than they’d ever thought was possible, all thanks to the new, improved, younger (more liberal) mother superior. Once known as a lover of music festivals, head shops and all things countercultural, a sobering incident left her placing her faith in something devoid of the frivolity she’d known and loved for decades. After a particularly draining assorted red wine bender in the dead of winter (mostly fueled by cabs and zins), she awoke to find herself facedown in the snow, left there by an even drunker person with no residual conscience. There wasn’t a bright light in the trees, just a tingling down the spine and a voice that rang clearly in her left ear, “give up the booze and drugs and shit and I’ll give you a higher calling, girl”. The only way she could conceive of going cold turkey was through the cloth. She figured God was pretty cool anyway, swearing while giving her directions, so why not just give it the old college try?