From Point A to Point A and Back Again
by Scott Hefflon
photo by Joe Reilly
Even as I write, the revolution continues. I can hear it from my window. The street bursts with the rioting of… Never mind, it’s just a bunch of boisterous ex-patrons of the bar below my elevated office. Damn, I was on a roll, too. To continue missing the point, I’d like to paraphrase a great man (or at least a pretty darn good one, but he was a sharp dresser, so I give him the benefit of the doubt): “There is no point. There are only an awful lot of tangents and a few inconsistent coincidences thrown in to keep us feeling off balance.”
Actually, I think it was me who said that. I have no clue what I meant, but it sounds pretty witty, don’t you think? Yeah, me neither. (Admission: I’m not a sharp dresser, I’m just experiencing delusions of grand yore. I have the unflagging compulsion to end this parenthetic sense of non with a needless question. Why is that?) To continue, or start, as the case may be, um… What was I saying? Oh yeah, nothing. Which is, in fact, what I’m wearing right now. I figure if I can’t bare my soul, the least I can do is bare my ass. Being naked has yet to have any kind of profound affect on my writing, but it sure makes me feel funny. Now if only I could write that way…
“What a great place, it’s a great place to start.” Start what? (Scott, remember to end as many sentences as possible with question marks. Even if you don’t really need them. They spice up a page, and make you sound inquisitive.)
Deep breath. Let’s try this again. If I had a point, I’d probably be dangerous. To whom, I don’t know, but the sentiment appeals to my bloated sense of self and offers a flippant aura of power and rebellious spirit. Shallow wordplay hides the reasonably obvious point that I have none. Point, that it. Or isn’t. (Sorry, did I leave my participle dangling again?) Perhaps that is the point: It’s not reasonable, and it’s not the obvious of which I speak. (Or make repeated valiant efforts to. Speak, dammit, speak!) Lip service, wordplay, the pointless exercise of repeating dogmatic expressions in a pretty lame attempt at achieving Zen. (When in doubt, bring Zen into it. Truthfully, I have no idea what I’d do if I ever “got there.” Look where Nirvana got Cobain. I don’t want to go there. I don’t want to get there the same way either.) These exercises are tiring, and what am I keeping fit and trim for anyway? Flexing my wit (or what passes for it), pumping my ego, performing the prescribed verbal aerobics – to what end? (To what beginning and middle for that matter…) I’m still fat. I’m still lethargic. I think I’m getting mental shin splints. This circle running is wearing on my soles.
I believe it’s about damn time I tied this into what’s going on. There is a very real, very tangible reason for all this pseudo-philosophical mucking about. (Call it a reason, an excuse, a source, whatever you wish.) This reality thing is so predictably retraceable in retrospect it’s no wonder we blow it so obscenely out of proportion – we’re fucking bored with it! Anyway, the gist is: these tremors occurring in our scene, our alterna-whatever culture, the collective of our personal sense of individuality, are similar to cabin fever. We’ve been living off the fatty cells all winter, and we’re itching to cast off the baggy clothing and explode into a new season. That’s about as rich a metaphor as I can imagine. The air is electric, tempers boil below the heavy lid of reason, and people are having nervous breakdowns left and right.
Ride it out, wherever we “end up” next season will probably be better than this. For a while, at least. I’m sure we’ll all get deathly sick of that, too – but one lifefuck at a time, huh? Trends will change, there’ll be shopping to do, laundry will back up, and we’ll have plenty else to bitch about. Enjoy.
