Tease Mawray - The Dance

Simple ramblings in search of a true subject of interest

Tease Mawray �" The Dance

      Being self-taught, Kenny possessed that scent of arrogance a person reflects when knowing the differences between twisted reasoning and sanity when around others.
      And when he woke in the morning, not often, but sometimes, he was instinctively being reminded of those differences that proved too much for him.
      Flailing dream segments and aching jaws were a constant reminder that choosing wrong between mental fatigue and midnight walks can be painful. A hard choice between tossing and turning with cold sweats or taking a stroll on the cobbles shimmering with the night's fog, for him, the right choice can be exhilarating, the latter a mental beat down.
      After the first quick read by a zealous editor intern who, with advice from her peers, quickly labeled him "a writer of fiction", is the one of the two who was devious enough to get his thoughts printed for all to read; saving him or her the sound of piercing screams from their own lips as gripping fear overtakes them and steals their breath while falling helplessly to a net of underfunded institutions.
      She realized instantly, that for her to recognize and appreciate his literary genius, she too must possess his scent, his vent, and skewed view of reality; for her, only then can readers truly "walk with him in the park", maybe not holding hands, but at least a view from afar through branches and fall leaves.
      Instead of seeking help for the poor b*****d who has submitted a manuscript that disrupts the rhythm of a critic's breath, these leeches who possess a college's sycophantic literature degree, are enticed by mime professors into clinical uniformity curl up in bed with a warm brandy while staring at typed pages of a truly disrupted minds.
      Kenny is, of course, attempting to seek out yet another symbiotic mind to add much-needed credibility to his alibi. Credibility that is, in the form of a critics' nod, should questions arise from the doughnut boys regarding a bent personality and his whereabouts on some horror night.
      Many critics searching for the next best seller possess tendencies you and I cherish; the ability to enter and exit reality when the mood suits us.
They leave symbiotic minds outside their locked Manhattan doors and bend the corners of pages reeking of possibility, on purpose.
      The reader soon finds the 'slam in your face' lack of knee-bending in these words. There is no permission request, or hint of beggar-lined curbs on wet streets far below the triple glazing. There is no inferred apology by the writer, from one who tells stories most can't understand, no apology for a clinically rare and discriminating style of fear and untruths, but rather a puzzle only the teched can decipher.
      All snugly and warm between pale blue satin sheets, smugly she thinks the Doorman's smile must be on the next page. After all, this rag did find its way into her bedroom and onto her bed; the doorman must be involved.
      This is not a book of conformity, but a volume of problems, gestures, and insults. If you need to be beaten, chastised, admonished, or forgiven by another; then by all means, go to the barn of singing crows and attend the Sunday service.   A few shillings in a basket should suffice.
      Someone once said "The poor will always be with us", they should have added, "The priests who have the ear of the wealthy will make sure of that".
      Told they are nothing but sinners, many unlike Kenny, think a few coins and a two-hour verbal lashing is all they need to be set free from the bonds of conscience.
     In these short stories, if you see a period or comma that doesn't fit the format your daddy's money paid for, or punctuation that mirrors the teacher's smile from the front of the room when you opened your book, be at peace. Interpretations of right from wrong come from one of two places, choices in the morning or soft padding on the walls.
       If you cannot balance your own dance while sleeping, then where are you after your third sip of brandy when all sounds and sights surrounding you seem to disappear into a background blur as you make notes on the borders of someone else's dogged pages?
      By all means, please put the book back on the shelf if Kenny hasn't included you in his midnight walks. Brother Kenny wrote these words for you to read as cool air moved past his lips just to slow your breathing.
      Fear not, for these words will not let you bite your lip, nor allow the trickle of warm blood to excite your primal senses.
      You'll not find perfection here, please don't look. Nor will you find another writer's style. The reason this rag is sitting where you found it is because Kenny didn't want to force you to join the many who require another's permission to taste life.
      You can scrutinize my words for yourself; you don't need the 'critic' who reflects the opinions of one who needs to be read to get paid. If you need someone foreign or someone who sat next to you in class to dictate what you should and should not read, then so be it. If you need someone to tell you how good or bad something is before you feel safe, then so be it.
      Only the courageous and curious have business in bookstores! If you need to be led with bread crumbs left by others you have no business in a store of books; furthermore, you should flee before you embarrass yourself when found out.
      If you need to be led around by your nose, call whoever dropped you off and quit dogging the pages; you are no more than a spy lacking imagination. Like a painting, my writing will always have flaws; I promise you. The constant evolution of our vocabulary has assured us of that.
      If you persist, you will recognize me at a glance. I will always be your familiar, not a work twisted and massaged into someone else's idea of what is interesting and correct. Substance is not a prerequisite of writing, nor a collegiate mandate; often substance is provided by impostors, foreigners, lovers, readers, dreamers, and unknown lazy b******s.
      If the words on these pages don't fit your mind's interpretation of life; stop listening to those who will tell you what you must do to make it fit their personality, not yours.
      Leave the crows sitting on the fence. Perhaps yours is the only true vocabulary. Perhaps your interpretation is the correct one, and Kenny likes writing short, simple stories, needs help, and is reaching out, perhaps not; perhaps he just wants to pull you from one scene to another without asking permission.
      Smile at yourself, who knows, maybe a dance is just that, a dance; and maybe scenario is just another word for traveling through labyrinths of encyclopedic words with which to taste and savor at your leisure; perhaps penalties exist for stumbling without a map, perhaps not. In the end, our only guarantee is that we can allow ourselves the opportunity to try. The End