Bravely yielding my six-string axe through a fiery inferno of hot rock and barely clad large breasted Amazonian women. All of whom are fighting amongst themselves, in a sweaty, hot, fornication-promising heap, over who will be the victor in having the honor of straddling my leg, as the nerd painter – decked in floods and flannel and dreams – creates my muscle-ripped mountain-top-commandeering portrait, replete with crotch-covering lion’s fur and a backdrop of gloomy and hard volcanic ejacu… Oh hell! I guest authored today on wicked cool Jen’s site, and here’s the wicked cool link to take you there.
Please pop on back and tell me what you thought about my wicked cool, Heavy Metal-doused diatribe!
PS: Should you listen to only (1) this week, go with track number #6, as it is damned near the “You Suck” anthem of all time. But also try to give picks 1 through 5 a audio peek as well. I mean, hell, this IS a mix tape, right?
You do know, it was I who taught you how to dance.
You can only attack life in joy, or as a chore, right? I chose the former.
Well maybe, but that was a long time ago!
Well it was great.
And…?
I had fun, thanks.
And you’re too old now!
Neva’ too old not too, right?
•••
Two separate conversations, intertwined. The first between my daughter and me, the second between Australian pop star Cody Simpson and the self same me again.
While the first chat could happen on almost any given occasion, its counterpart resulted from my recent need of part time employment to supplement my income (or as I like to call it, “Career, Pt. 2”). This brought me in contact with Mr. Simpson, as the soul barrier between him and 500 screaming ‘tweens – armed only with safety scissors and a smile. My control of these jibbering masses, through dancing about and joking with them, was noticed and remarked upon by Cody and his handlers, and it was their comments in general that formed the (mostly) fictional chat I had with him above.
Fortunately for some (and sadly for others I suppose), Deb did not choose any Cody tunes for the 100 Word Song prompt this week (click the link! Play along!), so we’ll be listening to One Republic’s “Counting Stars” instead.
She is an inspiring artist, and a wonderful sport. I love her vision, and have longed to use more than one of her pieces as prompts. With one of her more recent works I blurted out my desire, and instead of politely ignoring me (as she should have), she actually invited me instead to go ahead and do as I wished. Dear Elena, I truly hope I don’t disappoint you with the following…
Copyright – Elena Caravela
The shoes are key.
You see, it’s the shoes that always point forward, never back.
And my friend, if you’ve even one that points in the yesterday direction, then I should think it high time that you invest in a new pair!
No, it’s the shoes that point forward. Ever looking towards the horizon. Ever hoping for the next step instead of the last, scary monsters and super creeps be damned.
Be they jaunty or clunky, tight tipped or broad-nosed, dirty or clean, new or old, they carry you on your journey. They are – if you’ll pardon the deplorable, yet necessary pun – with you every step of the blessed (or damned, as the case may be) way.
For you see, while the shoes may point the direction, tis you who decides how they’ll get you to where they’re going. Tis you who decides whether they’ll bounce or thud, whether they’ll crisply cut the low air, or drag along the concrete sulkily. Tis you who decides whether they will move with purpose and speed, lounge along casually with a certain ease of mind, or trawl dead-weighted from moment to moment in sullen despair.
You see, whether you turn to the left or turn to the right is not the thing. The thing is in the very fashion with which you make that turn, and in the passion with which you tarry forth.
And best of all, tis you who decides that, my friend – YOU!
As for yours truly, I had decided several epiphanies back to slap the smile on my face, and screw my best hat – yes, the flouncy one – securely to my noggin just prior to heading out my mind’s door.
True, the rain still comes, and the weather must still be weathered. But I’ve come to learn that it’s not so much the rain that stops me, as it is these very drops of salty wetness that serve to create me – making me who I am and who I might someday be.
The smudges these sky-fallen tears leave are worn with pride, not embarrassment. And much like the shoes that are charged with moving both them and my own good self along, on our way forward we all march gaily to the ‘morrow!
as long as i'm singing 