A Cheap Trick that Might Be Something More

Better than Tristan and Isolde, better than the union of European Nations, the marriage of Form and Content is the zenith of harmonious blending, the devoutly wished for goal of writers and artists and anyone else in the business of making something from nothing — creating, that is — who strive to match message with medium, all in the hope of somehow communicating the ineffable to observers (listeners, readers, innocent passers-by) who almost never have time for cogitating or interest in unraveling, folks who are more concerned with the obvious and reasonable question “what’s in it for me?” or, more precisely, what utility does it have for someone whose chief concern, like all of us on some level, is if it can it be eaten or worn or driven to the mall, where the collected baubles of our culture hang in window displays like so many pieces of bloodless meat drying on hooks, waiting for someone with a hole in his soul the exact shape and size of the made-in-China thingie beckoning from behind the glass, like an immigrant prostitute posing in the Amsterdam red light district, where the business of carnal pleasure competes with the business of dopamine interruption — or whatever it is that hashish does to the human brian to make it feel better about the cranium that contains it and the society in which it wanders peripatetically, searching for meaning and assurance on the one hand and animal necessities on the other, a balanced diet of the useful and the useless, of things that nourish the belly and the blood and things that allegedly feed the soul, such as 300-word run-on-sentences masquerading as essays that must be making a point about Form and Content on some level but, when you really consider them closely, are as worthless as a forgotten idea.

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1 Response

  1. Tam says:

    Brilliant solo!