EPISODE 1: The Unedited Feelings that Lay in Wait Behind a Bitch Slap
Voice to Voice: An Introduction
Chalice Sinclearly, you is warned: I will make no apologies for making you the butt of my sorry-ass account, for you are quite literally my whole unschooled point: a Lone Wolf lifer long self-removed from the sure strive for completion in honor of the self-effacing struggle for submission. My successors critically acclaimed ahead of my time, the days have come to finally embrace, celebrate, the non-action, the ineffort, really, that you have been rendering upon my ambition to unearth the top of my game ever since I first believed the literary-legend ball was in our court: being that, the days have arrived to choose sake over achievement. I shall weave your lifestyle - our amalgamation - into the woolly fabric of an imagined readership honed out of my well-earned paranoia. That I shall dare to publicly dumb you will prove your ruthless clutch upon a covert genius. Godspeed, jagoff. ...
You exist inside my everyday head as the deep potential of high-knowing parentheses, and as I picture my decisions in the crosshairs of your insight, I aspire to pierce irony, and simply be bohemian about things. Along this writerly way you have propped me stonerly against a podium-maligned repercussion that might finally give a rat's-ass about challenging the mood your objective so long ago, back when its sweat unfortunately, but necessarily, over-assholed its skills, smugly set as my self-reference. As such, you are about me, an aura off in the enclosed wings of my presence, and though I definitely feel you there, my gumption to attempt to distinguish you, to paint my masterpiece, will each and every time tenaciously offend. You do not bound to and fro upon socked tippy-toes like some fairy-taled suppleness, as is readily suggested in this ability of yours to remain mostly nonskeletal. Your lurk, contrarily, with its brash and constant sense of being between criticisms, dupes dexterity into a flightily-handled flat-footedness, and behind my shop-talked displays of having no real life to die by, you promise a societal clumsiness that shall be distinguished for its quality of hush: though my character will never knock elbows with the right crowd, your name will blossom into the trust of wallflowers. This being, credence has never been disproportionate to the idea I've gained of you and have myself thus far in your time established as intriguingly plausible by way of giving in to the ideal that there is a vulgarity that might role-model as the fusion of your disambiguation and your lies.
Arrived at the formality of being against overtures to the mock of identity, you do to the schema of convenient ignorance almost exactly what I might do. And in the mid-fabrication of my hard luck when you come to unexpectedly judge the joke's on yourself, the resultant guffaw proves my only hope of sanctuary rests forever in the tender of full and utter sadness. This reality grows more and more apparent within my comprehension as irrationality proves to mature towards a heartening inescapability: Chalice, you freaking cock-block, you have made of me a perpetual wannabe - publishable only to myself: where I spell out the punch lines you use to sever paperly-based ties, you merely spill over mine.
Dig, I'm gone, lost to the grip of a declassed edification, one wherein I'm scrupulously obsessed with keeping the Lone Wolf character from being blanked within the staging of my craft's obligatory nervous breakdown. This theater ain't coming down from the clouds anytime soon. While I've almost tamely vacated realization in favor of seeing you down to the doldrums of being taken at face value, let's not even begin to fool one another for a single moment: who's saving who, asslick? ... Admit it, Sinclearly, you know as much as I do that accountability has an exceptionally powerful motive for keeping my say hidden way up your sleeve.
This is publisher/poet John Hospodka’s bi-weekly instructional blog.
