Urban Existence. Writing. Testing the notion of how strange other people’s minds can truly be? Each night, perhaps out of boredom, or perhaps out of its lack, various scenarios are spontaneously offered to spur one’s participation. And like that community of serial storytellers and persistent gossips, one try to get things right! But with the once abundant social commerce having now been bankrupted by that thumb based silent killer, also known as ‘the text‘, all remaining traffic must be carried out in the privacy of personal gray matter which is basically a biological transmitter of one’s dreams.
So how odd to find one’s self as being part of a theatrical assembly of would be players, along with other non-con-scripted individuals, lost throughout the suggestion of an evening while tasked with the absurdity of trying to make sense of the why and wherefore’s of being toga bound needing by directorial command to hold a can of cream of chicken canned soup in one hand and then trying to remember some meaningless stilted soliloquy on the other? You can’t fabricate this sort of thing! Those sorts of characters cast being two ancient philosophers, one from Greece proper and the other from the Mediterranean coast of Ionia. A small Greek chorus contingent of eight to ten, sans heavy porcelain masks standing just opposite. “Go ahead son and step right in there to recite your lines!“. [disembodied voice in a Texas drawl].
The Post-Modern significance of our current onion skinned modern society suffering in some great measure by this necessary addition of more banal advertising fluff. The rules of the game once again circumvented as they pass by an old Saturn working his ancient magic through the Neo-Platonic Nu! Maybe those signals have become garbled? Who knows back here upon our big blue marble? It makes me wonder, should I keep my spare bed sheets freshly laundered, starched, and recently pressed in hopes of this repertoire being revived? Was there some miscommunication either way, back then or now, as to the proper configuration or useful meaning of those bed sheets ranging from casual toga to formal nightly employed Klan uniform? And after all our ceaseless SJW rhetoric, at the end of day, does it really matter.
Not as long as one makes sure to have that chunky chicken filled tin can of constantly gluncking soup held tightly in hand and ever at the ready! Keep those sponsors happy! They obviously have penetrated the Akhashic plane of universal consciousness with all their ad campaigns. Otherwise, why would I have to be holding this damn thing and try to attempt to recite some pompous sounding pseudo Shakespeare in ethically sounding erudite rhymes before a phantom audience? Who do you bring to account for the absurdity of all that?