Something about "words we wish were written," I scrambled to scrawl out in a fevered wake.
I don't write the rest of the stories. Just the initial yarns; those I entwine for your entreatment and mispleasure.
You could look at my endeavor as futile. You could frame me as rooting for teats in the cloth, in the Clotho.
We all start somewhere. I am who gives a voice to beginnings. I am one whose fabric no one else could weave.
I sit and spin. I listen. The winds carry scents of change. They inform my loom. My fingers ache at the task so I troll the block. This is where you found me: strolling, tethering my environment to reality, dreaming of a deeper meaning and a lower calling.
Well, my dear. We have found each other. Let's take this for a spin.
Tonight I met a pretty lass named Sarah. Her mother was a cop in Shasta, her pops a cop too. They met in the Force, and made a strong, bright, beautiful daughter who ended up smoking a cigarette on the corner where I was dancing and writing. She soon began wishing she'd peed before leaving the arcade bar. She claimed not to be good at video games.
I span/spun her a yarn, her and her friend Lisa. You know, the one about the evil bastard, raped his niece, rolling a boulder uphill about it ever since. Lisa knew this one, neither of them were cool with the niece-rape. Major rewrites next season.
What's the opposite of "regale"? Avid, open listening… That's what we did, for some short minutes. I let her use our facilities, and she tripped on back to her sanctuary east of Pasadena, far from here. My sponsor had long grown tired and had haphazardly retired, remained unaltered since I had departed to stroll.
Anyhow, any hoot, hoot hoot hoot. An owl will watch, and contemplate. I never tire of tracing the fibers of Sisyphus, or Prometheus, Jason, or Odysseus. I don't bother to ask the Romans if my steed ran prior to 753 B.C. or really 800 B.C.E. just to be safe. There are some tales that stand to be told again, any many that have grown weary over the years. Some mortals act out the myths we have wound for them. I am blessed to know their tales, and am obliged in my age to share them with you.
I have found, as I decline into what the Olympians refer to as the vespers of consciousness, that many tales, well-woven and fraught with intrigue and peril as they might be, often go unheard, left resounding against the walls of a banquet hall now littered with the raucous waste of those lizardy few that distilled the night into the drop of daylight on the horizon.
I have found, like few others, that the greatest stories go untold while the loudest tales of the greedy syndicate in our consciousness. I may be remiss for only mentioning this now. Recent innovations in writing and publishing have drawn me out a bit, out from my lifelong, hermetic churn. We can say what we want now. Anyone can listen. Few may choose to, but the dais stands no matter the assembly.