The Faux Pas Press #17
A Weekly Thought
30 November 2009
Roaming Through the Butter
By Jason Fresh
Most nights I dream. Most nights I wait for an epiphany of some kind, a magical visitor from the beyond, something other than dreams about being eaten by giant donuts perhaps. And like most people I disregard the substance of these wayward visions, these psycho illusions. I cast them off as indigestion, too much lard in my diet, or maybe the residual effect of 8 or 9 diet sodas through out the day. But I know one thing; I know that dreams can become tangible, the real substance of the wayward existence. You just have to wade through the fat. You must roam through the butter to get the bread, and when you eat, you shall never hunger again.
Most nights I also bask in nightmares, demons of the past. I shake off the numbing effect they have on me, the numbing sting left deep in the nervous system. After these nightmares I have no compassion left, no thoughts for the less-fortunate, no prayers for change; I am vacuous and alone, lying in tubs of melted butter.
There are memories too. I see dead people. (Yes, I can pay homage to M. Night if I want, player.) The woven fabric of my past brings to the forefront a barrage of enemies that I have yet to conquer, and if left unaddressed, will manifest yet again.
So, I take up this pen and I place it to this paper. And begrudgingly, do the one meaningful thing. I write.
This short month has passed by so quickly. I think about my daughter, Lola. I think about my wife, Liz. I consider that the gods have been kind to me as I have been kind to them. I know now that I may never become a fixture in the mind of Americana, the New Capital Experiment, but I am convinced that I am still living the dream. And when I say this, I don’t mean that tomorrow I will really, in living color, encounter the thoughts of my astral cortex. I don’t mean that I will be eaten by some over-sized Danish women determined to make me hers. What I mean is that I have faced my demons, and I will face them again tomorrow. I have wondered through the smoke in the mirror, sifted through it all. I mean to say that I have waded in the fat long enough. I have surrendered my life to the gods, to the great and abominable muse, Parley Angerbliss. I have taken a bath, washed myself clean from the tub of butter. And now, I address you.
I mean to keep it short. I pray that there is no pretension. My thought: You must stop roaming through the butter. You must get to the bread if you want to live.
Green Lights,
Jason Fresh
www.fauxpaspress.com
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