Be light on your feet, with a wry smile, rye whiskey, and a cigar in your trembling fingers, as you sort through all your April 1st and Halloween gags, and list them, in no apparent order, as you grovel for lost words in the misanthrope’s bag of tricks.
Eat away the silent part of those burning-the-midnight-oil plans, and outrageous accusations against mediocrity and way too much pluralism these days. Instead, find some kind of common ground in the living of the charmed life decidedly not afraid of too much adventure.
Be willing to swill the best rum on some secret Caribbean island sandbar, call it, let’s say, Water Island filled with road turtles and golf carts and no damned golf courses as your ship sails in around sunset.
Isn’t it time to become a rapscallion, a breaker of waves flooding the ordinary day? Isn’t it your calling to fly more, chase eagles in some sloth part of Colorado near that fish hatchery between who knows where and Crested Butte?
Isn’t it your deepest desire to play it crazy and dangerous, throw assault and dignity and caution to the wind, and try on a scary adventure, a wild expectation for size, a good fit for a mind gone rogue, bordering on reprobate style as you dig your way out of way too much automation, way too much repression and exalted routine, drinking warm PBR’s.
And those holes in your jeans are on purpose? Come on man, kids did that in the 90’s. Kind of that overdone gentile positioning that got your great grandmother pregnant — but, I guess, lucky for you dude.
So the moral of the story, is that the timing is everything, and it may be exactly right, for you and your kind, for the trestles on the sidebars, the opiate feelings lost somewhere near Peshawar, Pakistan, just down from Cyber Pass or Deadwood, with most of the details left out to protect the reputation of politically-correct germaphobes.
Isn’t it time to break out of living the ordinary life and become a dastardly, jimmy-rigged cosmic traveler? Look up, in the darkening evening sky, you might see giant Venus and a waxing fingernail moon and finally get it, realize it: Hey, Earth really ain’t all we got.
Read some crazy stuff like Hitchhikers Guide to the # 42. Read Essays: Does anyone even know what an essay is anymore? And who the hell was that long-winded, jumping jack preacher mind by the name of Emerson? What the…why the…who were the…transcendentalists? And what is philosophy anyway? Maybe the pathways and byways to change your variable life?
Don’t live the marginal life, live the magical life.
Don’t save face, save opinions, save doubloons, save your most prized experiences and cast them into the bellowing bellies of the Undertoad, remember Garp? Ride the Marrakesh Express once again on the Stills rail.
Be someone who is thought about 100 years after your are dead. Sleep more when your dead. Retire when you’re dead. Take a break when you’re dead. Don’t take any more risks when you’re dead. There are so many things you can do when you’re dead.
But right now bleed spirituality. Get really drunk with Taoist priests and roam a nearby countryside.
Live an outrageous, audacious, magical, incredulous life — just for the hell of it. And you will (shall we say) have a hell of a lot of fun dancing on the edge of time (your time/btw). Be the cosmic prankster filled with revelation and Satori. Yes, it is an actual word that gives you the key to everything. Don’t look it up, experience it as an actuality.
The party has begun, and you finally showed up. Now what?
Don’t worry about more questions, just be the answer to your own rapscallion life; and rest is cosmic jokes, happenstance, phantasmagoria, and rattling cages.
Oo reh, and up she’s risin’, earlie in the mornin’.