First I was like, Ob-La-Di.
Thomas was working.
Thomas was doing what he was supposed to do.
Thomas was good at what it was he was doing.
Shortly thereafter, just when I’d come to terms with my new and improved state of indifference, something else happened.
An interesting thing occurred while I wandered InterBike, showing all who cared my new Wood.
Not interesting in the cliched Vegas way. It was a way that did not involve petroleum jelly, skittles and a silicone-sling-shot.
Interesting by EXCLIMATION!
Then I was like, Ob-Les-Wha?
Because right there – that’s when the funny I had, collided with the interesting that was, and became this strangely interesting funny ‘thing’.
THAT, that this, was the moment when I recognized this ‘thing’.
For the record and in hindsight, once acknowledged, this ‘thing’ was (clearly) more a revelation (of sorts) then it was any ‘thing’ at all.
For me, it was less that what it was.
More what that it wasn’t.
This ‘thing’ was entirely and completely nothing rather than something.
Then I was all like, Ob-Le-Ques-Que-Fuc?
I don’t DO anything.
His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.
I get it.
What I didn’t realize was that (this) was got’ed outside mine own head and that those that got-that didn’t really have a clue.
I don’t DO anything. As it stands, that is, so far recently.
Of course this multiplicitous InterBike declaration wasn’t intended entirely literally.
Shouldn’t have been.
I still pack boxes, surf the internet and provide the sturdy visage that IS Misfit Psycles.
The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
By no means is this recognition (of mine) a declaration of intent to DO more.
Doing anything is, authentically speaking, counter productive to doing nothing.
What I DO though (it should be acknowledged) is what isn’t done at all.
The undone is what THEY want.
What THEY expect.
All THEY get.
THIS is what I DO.
Ignited by a re-found purpose (the foundation on which the Empire was first cast) I set forth to DO something.
Maybe even respond to a dozen or couple of them.
I was feeling inspired. Agitated.
I get a lot of email. Disproportionately so.
When my times allow I open them ALL.
It is my belief that deleting an email I have ACTUALLY read causes greater cosmic harm to the offending party than merely deleting an email, sight unseen.
“Yes, I read your email and I deleted it. Motherfucker!”
“No, I didn’t read your email, I deleted it, motherfucker???”
When times do not, I sort. Sortation with an aggravated intention to review.
To be deleted (perhaps even responded to) in order of priority.
Ego Stroking – emails of praise and thanks for being awesome.
Revenue Generating – emails that (likely) may result in income. Tangible, short term, immediate INCOME. NOT potential, possible income related to goodwill, charity or sponsorship (see Revenue Sapping).
Solicitation and Balls – You have money, we have shit. Let’s talk trade. To fuck with that, if I haven’t asked for it, I don’t want it.
Revenue Sapping – emails of request. Whatever they be they are but they ALWAYS require participation without a transaction and presuming I have a future is presumptuous.
I elected to review the inbox.
Which had become more an in’tainer.
In relatively short order, the ego was vigorously stroked and stroked again, revenue was generated and all solicitation sacked with prejudice.
Lo, hidden amid and amongst the Revenue Sapping requests of mine personal charity there was a branch I hadn’t pruned in some while.
Requests for information.
Superficially exhausting and instantly uncommercial, this was an avenue I ONCE had opportunity to exploit.
Exploit it well I did.
Interviews, reviews, cross-promotions and the like.
Possibilities could potentially abound that afternoon. With this hope, I set forth.
In what could be best described as a flurry of (re)inspiration I responded to each and every request.
Channeling my inner Ralphie, responses flowed effortlessly from one into the other. Building in succession, evolving in both scope and depth. Without obligation I would carefully dismantle objections before they were considered and validate assumptions before they were implied. Each response as if it were part and parcel to the request that previously past.
I sat smugly in and between each retort and carefully (though admittedly after-the-factly) reviewed what it was I was doing.
What I had done. What I had said.
Impressive in both structure and intent, a fist pounding re-volution, a resurrection of the MY Empire.
Yet even to my rose-coloured eyes, it became obvious these disjointed responses were (at best) unintelligible to all but the most intelligent.
The most attentive.
I was talking to myself.
Right then. At that moment. And (clearly) just for me. I reclaimed my rightful place, my roll in what IS Misfit Psycles.
Should those six or seven recipients ‘er find themselves in contact with one-and-the-other, they will know EXACTLY what the fuck it was I was trying to say.
I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use, silence, exile, and cunning.
Starting tomorrow, so I don’t have to respond to the numerous responses that followed (Dear Peter; Thank you for the response…???), I intend to publish random excerpts from a few.
Then they’ll know.
Then you’ll know.
And then you’ll ALL be sorry.