Another originale by William Wallace.
Concept by William Wallace.
Inspiration by William Wallace.
Characters created, developed, and manipulated by William Wallace.
I’m so uninterested in your ignorance that it’s disgusting. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything?
A man is standing in the middle of a road during a downpour. It is late evening and the rain clouds give the world a blanket of darkness. A streetlight illuminates the man’s presence. His shadow stands many years taller than him. The rain strikes the ground and it sounds like moments of static. Cars rarely pass by and when they do they slow to a comfortable speed. The drivers and passengers, if there are any, stare blindly at the man who is staring at the ground. They assume he is homeless, or at least very poor. They don’t know his wealth because you can’t read it in his appearance. He is rich beyond belief. The value of his wealth is measured in emotions and associations not in material items or currency. In his hands he holds a book written many years ago. It is a Thrice Told Story. The pages are soggy and soiled but the ink does not run. He flips the pages methodically as he reads with great care. There are thousands of pages but he keeps reading and reading. It’s hard for me to acknowledge that as I look at the man I’m really looking at myself. I stare at the mirror constantly but I don’t recognize the reflection. I’m standing in the rain reading this story and writing it as well. The Thrice Told Story. I want to reach out and stop myself… I want to ask myself why I’m just standing there. Move, do something, get out of the street! I yell out. But I don’t listen. I’m ignoring the person yelling. I yell again and I still ignore it. A car approaches from the distance and I plead for that man to move. I hear an onlooker scream for me to get out of the road but I read on. Keep reading and reading. The car grows closer and the headlights grow brighter and it starts to slow down. I am hysterical on the sidewalk and my voice cracks as I shout. The onlooker is growing frantic but in his panic he doesn’t yet realize that the car has completely stopped. I watch the car stop from the sidewalk and I see myself communicate with the driver. The driver asks if I need help but I tell him that I am fine and would like to continue reading. He is confused so he drives away. I see the car drive away. I stare at myself in the road in amazement and then I wake up. I wake up and I am standing in the middle of an unfamiliar road reading a book that is waterlogged from the rain.
I promised that this is only the beginning…
I’m so uninterested in your ignorance. You were always busy when I was unoccupied. Was I? Did I even want to know anything? I said this begins in a kitchen but right now this is not it. This is just a bridge from one point to another, which is the point of a bridge. They rarely end. You won’t see a bridge halfway built. Dear Bridge, connect me, take me to the other side of the water. I am in awe of your height.
I reach out to myself but something is wrong. I don’t reach back. I notice that my skin is falling off of my body and my intestines are sprawled out behind me as if I have a tail. It’s dragging behind me but at least it is not a chain. If I can just make it out of the rain then the flood might stop. Answer me Thomas, you fucking idiot. Reach back. Take the hand. Get out of there. But I don’t. I tell myself that if the rain would stop I would sing out and sing out and sing out and sing out. But it doesn’t and I can’t. My vocal chords are shredded from the incessant monologue, which insinuates that it never stops. It doesn’t stop. Stop talking Thomas, you fuck, stop talking. Stop talking and sing out.
Stop talking. All they do is keep talking. They tell you everything but they’ll never tell you about the friends you lose. I guess it’s just assumed and observed and brushed under the rug. Should we even assume anything? It’s strange that at this point I need more than a few bottles to get anything going. To feel motivation. And don’t I always sounds reflective? It’s pensive, I don’t want to keep giving off a feeling of nostalgia but don’t memories make your world go ‘round? Apologies look cute on paper but what if you don’t mean it? If you don’t mean it don’t even bother to think it in passing. Passing. Passing. All we are doing is passing by each other like ghosts.
And oh how I would love to do everything you want to do. We could travel the vestibules and valleys and everything in between. Is that wrong to say? Are we just deceivers? I hope not. But if we are then deceive me because I am in awe of the virtue. I couldn’t believe I was so nervous. I even had to change my shirt. But after you expressed similar signs of tension I was relieved. I can commiserate. Cross my heart, I swear. I swear that you’re making me nervous but I can’t help but like it. Oh God how I would love to do everything you want to do. I swear it.
The shriek is almost unbearable. “What made you go?” Every part of her shakes as she says it. Every road every plain every hilltop every shrub every crack in the pavement quivers as she yells. What can I say? The congregation is shouting. “This is what it takes? This is what it takes?” I try to apologize but I am muted by her grief.
[Excerpt] I exist in a radius circled with dust older than the ashes of my family's American flags. We pay by the hour to be amused by the meek. We obtain virtues from our Mothers and Fathers who obtained virtues from their Mothers and Fathers and so on and so forth. I have never claimed to be a patient man and I know I am no such thing. If you let me in the door I swear to you I’ll leave in a minute. I’m only here to take a minute. Am I losing my grip? My knuckles are being beaten to the bone and I can’t hold this minute anymore. And what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it… Machine wash warm with like colors. Use only non-chlorine bleach when needed. Tumble dry medium. Cool iron if needed. For more information see “Out Like A Lamb Part 7” by William Wallace. [/Excerpt]
I recall breaking down scratch tracks and demos and now I realize that this is all we do. I want a listener but this is just a rough mix and I want it to be professional. So I’m just sitting here with my golden crown and my golden pen and some alcohol terrified that this is all it will ever be. You are miles from home and what matters most? I’ve gotten so comfortable with playing the robber, the thief, that I’ve become bored of it. I long to be the bank, so timid and vulnerable. Hold me up at gun point, everybody down! Everybody down this is a stick up and you better not forget it. Discover the password like a scavenger hunt and clean out my vaults, please. I’ll play the bank and I’ll never speak a word of it. Across the street they will look out of barber shop windows in horror but I promise I will not let them speak this to anyone. I won’t. Their faces are half charred by the fires of their Daddy’s wars. The rain trickles slowly down the drain but it’s not red with our blood. The thunder roars loudly but it’s not filled our angst. The lightning will flash in the distance illuminating my cheer as you clean house on me. I’m visible when the lightning strikes. Wet newspapers line the streets as the rain streaks off of raincoats into already soiled shoes. And all you hear is the rain. The static discharge. Just the rain.
I sat down at the bar one night and I started talking to an elderly man. We were both at the bar alone and over drinks we started to talk about life. Listen to me, he said. I want to tell you something. I am an old man, years past my prime. But I want to tell you something. Go to school and learn. Learn as much as you possibly can. Get a good job and find a good wife. Do what you have to do to take care of her. Support her. Work hard. Have kids and teach them things like respect and integrity. Be stern but fair. Never show signs of weakness. Take care of your parents the way they took care of you. Be a provider. Show people respect and they will respect you back. Buy the cheapest house in the nicest neighborhood. Fix it up, take pride in your house. When they play the National Anthem you stand up, take your hat off, and put your right hand over your heart. When you go out… to the grocery store, to a restaurant, to a gas station, to the airport and you see a man in his military uniform you shake his hand and thank him. Even though he can’t drink in uniform you buy him a beer and tell him that it will be alright, he deserves it. He will refuse, but you don’t leave until he shakes your hand. Respect your elders because they are wise, they have worked their whole lives for this wisdom. Their hands are cracked with honor. Take pride in what you do and have pride in your children. When you grow old they will have nothing but good things to say about you. You may even get awards for your contributions. If you live this way you will never be forgotten. Your family and friends will attend your funeral by the dozens. Your name will live on. Do what I say, and I promise you they will remember. Oh, and one more thing. Stick around until the bar closes… and at last call buy two drinks.
It was so passive, that conversation and, and, umm, oh I’m such a fucking lush…
William Wallace
BraveHeart
The Red Cup Rebel.
The Midwest Magician
