RIALTOS BINGS - rewrite

A simple conversation between friends sitting outside their literature class

RIALTOS BINGS

 

      Some time ago a friend said, “To be a great writer you need to read the works of the greats.  As an example, she offered Shakespeare.  I replied, “I would never read Shakespeare”, and in fact, I rarely read at all.  Periodicals, magazines, the news, that is it; I most likely will never read someone else's works.  I enjoy life and make my own translations and interpretations of that medium.  The euphoric scent of flowers and the sorrow of love will test my senses in due time.  To donate one’s life recanting another’s testament of miracles is laziness and a sinful waste of so precious a breath! 

      However, men and women who spend much of their lives gathering information make a real sacrifice for their fellow man.  They provide the rest of us with answers to mold our imaginations and stitch the fabrics of our lives.  Joined, the men and women of curiosity, science, and search are magnificent for sacrificing a kiss for their endeavors.  For in my shallow world, the warm breath of a kiss, and the succulent touch of a love, are two of my precious reasons to breathe.  A love's want... to touch my used life is enough to shudder my breathing, yet I have nothing as magnificent to offer as clues to explain love's fever. 

      In my world, if not for the love of life, why rise? If not for the need, want, and search for companionship why breathe?  Unique individuals, the men and women all possess knowledge unique to their psyche; the interpretations of others are dried leaves.  All humans possess life experiences and interpretations of those experiences, which another has not. 

      As mentioned earlier, I was informed: “Most great writers follow the examples of other great writers, structure, basic ’flow’, etc.”  I explained that I would not want to read another's work for fear the influence would ‘taint’ my writings; albeit crude examples of literature by any standards, any change using borrowed style may help the indoctrinated, or 'learned' reader, but not me.  I would feel rebuked and very much saddened if I were to hear someone say, “Your work looks familiar, sounds familiar, and is familiar.” 

        I never want to hear “Oh, he writes like Shakespeare”; like an abused runaway, my breath would not return.  Hearing my uniqueness is but another’s folly would greatly sadden even me.  I would rather hear "Oh look... one of Rialto's...it's obvious.... his familiar stain of ignorance always rubs off the pages, my fingers are blackened by one who is blind as well as deaf; I'll not despair, for I have his rag with which to bathe, ha, ha. 

        Fortunately, if people did compare these pages with someone else's, their familiarity with my writing would be purely coincidental.  Perhaps arrogant, I would never purposefully learn the traits of he who sought the ear of the wealthy during a time of boredom and the great pursuit of nothing.  Only a lazy pig would cherish so simple a thing as another’s description of the obvious without first considering the mystery. 

        Has there ever been a man or woman who knows not the scent of flowers...is it not enough to experience that brief moment of ecstasy without paying a ghost to describe it for you while sucking its nectar?  If the act be someone else’s or not at all, what else is there? 

        I ask, are favorable opinions from those stuffing snuff up their noses to hide the aromatic smell of dried feces emanating from the unwashed cheeks of their asses the prize?  Smelly, overindulgent pigs were the audience?  This was the 'nod' Shakespeare begged from across the room? 

        The stench of plagues hovered like morning fog at the edge of their great lawns and yet like a thief of life, someone whispering “yesterdays” in their ear wicked their passion!  These are the people who are going to set my curriculum and standard for what is and what should be, I think not.  For I have always felt sorry for those ignorant of life with only the oddity of their self-inflicted position as a reason.  I truly pity the absence of participation by the ignorant wealthy who feed off true imagination, and wonder in their silks as evolutionary man rot in the same hallowed ground on an illegal sunny knoll. 

        The same is said of Bing cherries.  I have heard countless orchardists when tasting a new variety of cherry, “It's firm like a Bing, its size is comparable to a Bing, and the taste is very much like a Bing; this is a wonderful cherry and maybe the next Bing!”  When I hear this, I think, “Why not just buy Bing's?” 

        Please do not open these covers and expect a ghost in bloomers!  I do not talk in riddles, why would I?  As with writing, if you like the way Shakespeare writes, then by all means, go out and buy a book of Shakespeare, bid millions to purchase a piece of parchment with his dye because, like the toady,  you strain your ears to catch morsels emanating from the same sty across the room.  The swine haven’t even asked you, have they?  Scholars told you this is what should be and you kissed the lips of cowardice, forsaking your uniqueness. 

        In my world, I think it a bruise on your dignity to mistake a nod from across the room for genius and couth.  Their silence is an attempt to feign nobility when in fact they have nothing of importance to add to society.  They cast a wicked smile your way because like the crow they seek carrion. 

        Know this; the individual they attend must already be injured and unable to fly.  As I watch from cool fields, golden candlelight warms their windows; yet like their guests, the Lourdes can sleep sound tonight; knowing their spent wealth on cotton & silk hardly touch millions starving to death on distant shores. 

        If you like Bing's, go out, buy a pound, and end your search for a cheap impostor.  If you like Shakespeare, buy a ticket and sit with hundreds near a sweltering stage to smell the sweat!  Hang on to every word as it surrounds you with awe and desire; for Shakespeare is Shakespeare and like a cheap date, I am who followed you home.  Enjoy that which you have, and from behind closed doors, cherish the moment, for you are not alone.  There will be no applause when you end a chapter.  Moreover, whilst thou may toss and turn, the seat is purchased; know tonight we share a stage. 

        “To speed my pen with Shakespeare’s dreams is to steal his imagination, soul, and style.  To do so by any means is to steal another's smile.”  Bundle in your bed with a snifter of old golden wine, and listen to only your heart.  To spend another's imagination to make my love swoon, am I perhaps the toady, or the thief across the room!  Shall I stuff my nose with roses to garner favor of the critic who dined on Shakespeare in their youth, or leave the foul odor of pigs and let my imagination and individualism be the scent that wets your eyes?  Why should new writers pay repeatedly for the force-feeding of this goat? 

         Toadies doing the bidding of aristocracy while tenure hangs like beef in a market!  Ha!  It is well they give you not what you desire unless you play the mime in front of their crowd.  If you delve into my thoughts looking for perfection, please stop reading; I would rather you gently put this text back on a dusty shelve in a corner with shadows, than to know I have disappointed yet another.  As you thumb the pages, surely you know perfection dwells in another's hands? 

        These words and writings are a testament I possess neither perfection nor the desire to achieve it.  Should perfection appear before me, I would be in someone else’s dream with the salt from my brow stinging my eyes, for my road ends that day.  If you find perfection in this binding, know it is your personality and uniqueness, that brought it to my pages, not I, for I am but a turnip in your stew.  As with love, they say, "Perfection is in the eye of the beholder".  If so, I have done my work for you. 

        My heart will be full if I glance shyly at the shelf holding my thoughts for sale, and if today I were to see just one volume with many bent and tattered pages whilst its brethren remain untouched, my nostrils would sting with the pain of welling eyes.  Know either way I am rich today because the same pain would surely inflict me if I were to see cool, green lichen growing on the same uninteresting little volumes of time.  I should thank the first who bent a page, for she started the frenzy of rough handling the little volume; interesting at first glance but not cute enough to take home. 

       Fluency in Shakespeare is no guarantee you will understand and enjoy the finest writers of our time.  To know any night as your reflection in a pool is to waste precious originality.  To know others' words more than your own only means you have spent your life living the dreams of others.  You do not need an ‘A’ in English to participate in the sharing of stories filled with compassion, humor, and mistakes.  When your listeners ask for your thoughts, rest assured, that they will never ask for the literature grade you received in the same breath.  Never let swine dictate your passion, let them feed at the trough and root in the sty, for their stench is the bog that keeps us apart.  Even from across the room, your uniqueness becomes our world. 

        Know you are special in the eyes of life and those who share your world.  Listen to your heart.  Throw this writing into the darkness and over the bank so the tide can read once you have gotten your price.  Be forgiving and compassionate when listening to and reading fools, for even they, more than others, fear your opinion.  They know you ask nothing when giving it; and therefore, seek nothing in return. If a sheath hangs from your belt and the hilt of righteousness touches your strong hand, beware those you protect, for it is not in the smiting of illiterate fools, but rather your hearty laugh which lends strength to a room!  Three hurrahs for those who smile at themselves when imperfection crosses the room, for even fools recognize an old friend.   

The End.