A Panic Broadcast to ScarecrowsA Story by Gaston VillanuevaDon't make a drift decision. Make a conscious decision. THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
Levity of the mind is not a two way
street. It’s replete with made up conspiracies, maxims, and mercenaries. The
kind of mercenaries that wait for the bullet. The mind acts like cattle of the
sun. It roams but never shows more than two degrees of anybody. The mind is
like a snail who’s skidding out of control and laughing all the while. A joke
with no punchline. A problem with no solution. From inside a cardboard city, I
neglect my perspective and digest a Venn diagram in the process of
gerrymandering the essential functions of the job. We can’t do this
retroactively, he says. His style is catch and release. Actual, factual, and
very much terrestrial. It’s not my role to change your opinion, he continues.
We’re surrounded by misbehaving minds and eternally youthful loaded numbers.
Like spin doctors glued to images at the forefront who seek sex and sexualize
seeking. Commercial interests drive what we see. And this idea we named life is
nothing but an echo chamber; we hear what we want to hear. A comedy of errors blow in the wind
and my vision coughs. I sense the scarecrows around me fear crows. Their
movements are lewd and depraved as if they were taken for wholesale. Using brail
words, they ask me if history should be morally edifying. And with invective
brush strokes, their straw hands paint corn rows on the cardboard closest to us.
The members of a keystone species view their work and wonder if invalid minds
still create valid experiences. Revoke don’t blame, says the Venn diagram
with eloquence. We’re selling stuff to ourselves. And it’s not your imagination
that this stuff looks alike. It’s intentional. Lose your mind to find your
life. See the human in everyone to see the human in yourself. From somewhere in the back, a foreign
concept culminates the idea of murder through its actions. The Venn diagram deviates
from the path and falls to the ground. A scarecrow pronounces him dead for
definitional purposes. The minds around me fish for words but the foreign
concept sanitizes our thoughts. We became something we were never supposed to
be, it says. Consume the love and love to consume. I fall through the cracks and land
in a whale carcass descending to the bottom of an ocean. Five pioneers of
thought flick the digital dust off their bolo ties and sip on second-hand
depression. I watch with curiosity as they interrogate a plant of old pedigree.
Hooked up to a lie detector, the green alien claims to be obsessed with the
unspecific. It shrugs off pictures of grandfather clocks and birds flipping
coins. It yawns at pictures of cathedrals and coins flipping birds. The
pioneers of thought reveal a picture with emotional significance and the plant’s
mood changes. What does it really mean, it asks. We hit the ocean floor like a
sentence shifting focus. I meander through Hellenistic bristles
in the whale’s mouth looking for depth and a full story. A zoonotic researcher
pulls me out of the dead mammal bit by bit like I’m made of straw. She shields
me from a school of news reporters whose scandalous rhetoric look like fins. I’m
going beyond the call of duty to investigate whale flu, she explains to the
flashes of aquatic cameras. When we see a pattern over and over again it starts
to get woven into the fabric of our ideology. A wide swath of the group flounder
questions toward her. Do you care? Are you aware? Do you mind? What are you hoping
to find? I crawl through the lens of a camera and climb out of a television set
somewhere in the backwaters of the cardboard city. I’m supposed to remember that I’m
supposed to forget. The Venn diagram was the excuse to pull the trigger but
there’s more to focus on. Meanwhile, I’ll send best wishes your way. A scarecrow hands me a container of yogurt and offers some levity to my mind. What
happened to those who conquered the known world, he says. I wait for a
punchline that never comes.
WE NOW
RETURN TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAM © 2017 Gaston VillanuevaAuthor's Note
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