I am rich with poverty and poor in everything else, but i do have my treasures, my precious things, I have a cabal of weirdos and free thinkers flanking me who I call friends.
And I don’t pretend that plural is toooo plural: they number few and are rare finds like a flea market Rolex.I trade quantity for anxiety. Gladly.
Despite this haberdashin’ prose, I am a cartoon curmudgeon. I am that slightly cool slightly angry character writ into a million sitcoms:
I’m good with quick funny line, but don’t hug me cause I have issues. I am poorly written in the flesh.
In order to realllly ‘get me’ (and as proven by Facebook, few are interested in that investment) you need put me in the proper setting. Caffeine’d up. Not terribly straight. Steered into subjects I can speak too (music, relationships, the sad state of horror) and given the freedom of enough rope to hang, I will pontificate and perform naturally. I will be funny and something close to charming. I speak and rant till the words just spin around me and I feel myself lift from the ground (note: not terribly straight at all).
And my friends are similarly wired. Each has a windmill to tilt at. Each has a strong opinion on things and will, state it with grace and humor.
Certain friends will spin along with you, on their own separate trail of destruction (or construction if your feeling generous) and the effect is two separate conversations lost in the sound of spinning…but every advice gets through, every question gets answered, in an almost natural cadence of osmosis.
Its a hard trick. But if you work these mechanics long enough, its the only way to fly. It’s a new language. Its real flesh and mind interconnections, quicker than digital, more stable than Plymouth Rock.
Ultimately this is about freedom. We don’t choose where we were born from but we choose where we really live.
And today….I wish these things to you all. We can all be millionaires even after the money is nothing but colored paper.
Keep your friends close. Fuck your enemies.