Addendum to “Your Average Douchebags”
Paradoxically (perhaps not all too), it is the fear of death that must be branded as being the magnifier of the entire splendor encompassing this little middle-aged speck of shit I have entitled “Chalice Sinclearly.” It is no great secret to even the most Average Joe upon this planet which some educators still call blue, believe to be round, that permission for overly-extended existence is granted only to artifacts, to the crumbs of one’s proof. Mr. Sinclearly’s fear (kin to his aspiration, this must be pointed out) plays the Hansel and Gretel of his life after death promise, dropping his attempts at resonance – his kernels of expression – behind him on this forthright trek through the dark and far off literary pines.
There are many famous quotes regarding posterity, a majority respectful, but certainly those that revel in discourtesy. Go ahead, Google it. There are quotes from peeps you and your better-read friends have never heard of, and of course there’s a roundhouse thrown inside the estimation ring by that overly wannabe-masculine theory of suicide we all know as Hemingway, Europe and Cuba under belt and all. There’s even one from Groucho Marx, which to my ears sounds stolen. … Then, there’s this one quote from an Irish politician about a bird being in two places at the same time. The quote was actually derived from the dialogue of a Jevon’s play; it’s the quote used by Ambrose Bierce, our Great Vanishment, to define ubiquity – i.e. omnipresence – within his work The Devil’s Dictionary . (Thank God for the information provided by Wikipedia.) And that, truth be told, actually looms as a clearer mirror to Chalice’s conception of how posterity works upon the emotion of his work.
Chalice Sinclearly is motivated by envisioning that posterity is on his ass, shadowing him, bending to a cracked-scab knee to devour each dropping of his before ambling forward to locate the next. Thusly, the markers meant to guide Chalice back home again – back to the reality he’s never a player in the literary scene – are vanishing, and that’s just fine and dandy because there is no about-face when you’re confident in your delusion that not only is posterity creeping up on your ass (in one place), but that it is also the exact treasure you have ventured into these literary pines to go and pay homage to (in a second place, simultaneously), to go and bow before and offer up your better crumbs to – offer up those tangy, delicately teasing nibbles, those bona fide consequences fallen from your especially thoughtful and patient executions of the ancestral pattern’s recipe for its own just desert.
… In the course of doing the damn thing right and honest, there is no about-face.