Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Concerning Fireworks


     Last post ended with a vague picture, promising future elaboration. I do very well intend on elaborating, because the vague picture was taken from the inside of a metal tube of death an airplane taking me towards a life-changing week (in Kansas). That's all I shall say at the moment, because I'd have to get emotional in my descriptions, and, though that's been getting easier lately, I have business to take care of. Actual, serious business, in the form of three announcements.

     Firstly, the Wandering Typewriter has stooped to the clicheity of actually getting a Facebook page. *dodges the various semirotten vegetables hurled towards the aforementioned social website* I know, I know; but my friends on Facebook probably don't appreciate being spammed with blogging stuff (like I update often enough to actually overwhelm people with content), and a Facebook page contributes to some degree of Officialness. Plus it's forcing me to learn some marketing skills , which I'll need if I ever actually publish a book. And so, wade amidst the slight travesty that is Facebook, and like the page. If you will. If not, I will resign myself to a life bereft of all readers, and force my cats to listen to whatever sort of thing crawls out of my mind at 2 am (which is usually a death scene, or something my twisted self deems comedy. Sometimes the two intertwine with very satisfying results.)

     Secondly, though she has kindly linked to my blog as a source of inspiration (something I'm still shocked about), I never linked back to hers. And so, behold.

     Thirdly, I have the beginnings of an idea. Well, not the beginnings of the idea itself; more like the beginnings of the motivation I'll need to actually follow through with it. I'm considering posting some of my "actual writing", meaning writing that isn't sarcastic commentary on small life events. A...journal, of sorts, detailing the life of a certain archer. (No, not Hawkeye. Still haven't seen a Marvel film; I can't exactly write fanfiction.) Would I get an entire new variety of rotten vegetables thrown at me if I did this? Would it be anticipated with much curiosity? Would it fade into the depths of mediocrity that is the fate of much online fiction? Who knows. I care, though--and am curious as to the opinion of the multitudes.


     ...really? I posted two days after the Fourth of July, the Most American of holidays, and only discussed strictly dry, dull orders of business without mentioning any events? Am I hoping to mesmerize people with my mediocrities?


     Instead of actually working on my novel (or the theoretical blog-story), I created commentary from the Main Character himself. Sylvester Glass. And yes, I'm ignoring the screams of horror and continuing on my merry way. (For some reason I've started accidentally alliterating lately--I'm not sure if I should apologize or relish it. Also, to any British person reading the following: I am so sorry for any accidentally horrendous caricature. Blame everything on Sylv, even though Sylv sounds suspiciously similar to me, sometimes.)


     It was the Chinese who invented them, the history books reemphasize, along with the tale of inimitable virtue that is George Washington and his apple tree--or was it a pear tree? I want to guess orange, but despite the heat that metaphorically slaps me in the face whenever I visit that esteemed state of America, I don't think citrus fruits can successfully bear....fruit. Eh; whatever particular variety, the wood decayed centuries ago. I'm British; I have an excuse not to care. Perhaps I should pour myself a cup of tea, in solemn remembrance of the tea you lot DUMPED IN THE BLOODY HARBOR. I think I understand the sentiment behind it, but think of all the poor souls deprived of such a life-giving commodity. What did the tea ever do to you? To be fair, the tax would incite resentment, but to take out your anger on innocent crates of the priceless leaves... Hundreds of years have passed and it still shocks and pains me to my very core. I would say soul, but Anastasia has commented on my lack of such many times.

     Speaking of which, in the fear of beginning to sound like my dear colleague Ms. Forsyth (or is it Mrs. Washington now? Eh... I suppose she's both, if you look at the time-space continuum in its unbroken wholeness), I shall return to my original topic: pyrotechnics. 

     The Fourth of July. It captures the essence of the American caricature: an excess of processed food mixed with sheer, mindless destruction. Well, that might be a harsh description... perhaps I'm just jealous. And to be fair, fireworks aren't intended to be destructive (their original uses aside). Alas, intentions fade to the pain of reality, which can be both figurative and literal in this case, as thousands are injured each year due to the (albeit sometimes unintentional) misuses of fireworks. May the poor souls of the limbs untimely explod'd away rest in peace--or perhaps I should say in pieces?

    Well, despite the excessive but expected injuries, the Fourth of July is a marvelous excuse to blow things up for the sheer joy of destruction. Well.... that probably isn't the reason for the traditional pyrotechnics... Why does one shoot fireworks on holidays? Did someone think, "Hmm..... let's celebrate these happy events by risking our lives and potential future hearing abilities! Better yet, let's spend frightful amounts for that very purpose, and hopefully disturb everyone within three kilometers while we're at it!"

     I suppose that very few indulge in this thought process when they go out to purchase the paper-wrapped gunpowder death sticks. For many, fireworks are a display of joy and thanksgiving, or a way to take out their destructive impulses without harming anything (except perhaps the silence around them). When it comes to small children, though, gunpowder might not be the best option to sate their craving for stimulation--which is why many reasonably concerned parents don't let them touch anything beyond a flaming stick that spits thousands of sparks. Oh well; sparklers are pretty--the proverb says that we can always find beauty in pain, hmm? Besides, the mysteriously semi-omnipresent coolers provide conveniently cold water for any non-traumatic burns. 

     But I digress. The Fourth isn't about gunpowder and the inevitable burns, nor is it about the surpluses of greasy but delicious, violently American food. It's about remembering how America discovered she's a strong, independent country who don't need no king. Or queen. Or DARK PRINCE. Which is why I don't live in America--I, the DARK PRINCE, know when I'm not wanted. Knowledge and action are two different concepts, however. Perhaps that's why I visit so often... more often than anyone thinks, suspects, or dreams. For there are dreams that cannot be, and storms we cannot--wait, wrong country, wrong century, wrong language. Though I suppose the flag is red, white, and blue... 

     Oh well... I shan't waste anymore of anyone's time; time to dispose of all the leftover fireworks in a gloriously violent way. Wait, that's illegal, you say? Well, so was destroying a cargo of tea and signing such an earth-shaking breakup letter; see what that disregard of laws and loyalties let to. Tragically, my bendings of the rules seem only to lead in pain, usually because someone gets overly annoyed and stabs me. Which is quite rude. 

     Farewell until our next beautifully unexpected meeting,

     Sylvester Glass
     Dark Prince of Generic'lee Fantasia

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