i suppose there's a modicum of pressure in being the happiest town in the country. i sometimes wonder how beer city usa, home of the best homegrown, where the pharmacists and land developers are some of the wealthiest folks, will maintain this sense of humanitarian intoxication. every now and then the fog settles and things have to get polished up. the crust of the meringue on our key lime pie is very thin. underneath drunken smiles, celebrating new clients and groundbreaking ceremonies, record releases and non-profit visions, lies a rash of violent break-ins, drug induced child molestations and bar bathroom rape. married men in dive bars, cash burning holes in the pockets that their wives just mended. divorced women dancing the line between harlot and whore. cocaine brained geniuses passing out in their puke, while some novice deejay searches their jacket for loot.
we sing our own praises and perfect all the tricks. we are providing a place where the party is always available. where freaks are bred like heirloom tomatoes and boundaries are clarified just to be crossed. rule breakers toast drinks with rule makers and you don't need a full set of teeth to express an opinion on world finance.
asheville, stop repeating yourself. you're not convincing anyone who's going to be around to support your preposterous notions when the snow is falling in a few months. sit back and enjoy the moment. you've created something that entertains all your whimsy and fanciful notions. you can have an upscale dining experience or pbr in the streets with the same state of bliss. both are likely to include dancing. recognize the beauty in authenticity and stop projecting the facade of plenty. most of our population is struggling. and those who aren't are the conservative vote. they could give a shit if another burlesque dancer is out of her retail job or some single mama can't afford the mortgage her ex-husband left when he went to california two winters ago and never came back.
i'm told my younger son's father owns a lot of land in west virginia. that he lives a good life, with his wife and two kids and their incredibly profitable farm and i wonder what karma lies in not sharing. i wish i had been better at sharing. both times, i suppose. one extreme or the other, as they say. the irony of two fathers named mark. one a condescending prick at the federal building, proudly displaying his choice to denounce me as useless, even dangerous, and another who lives underground in fear of me. both small-minded and weak. i dominated both of them as sport and loathe who i was when i did so. so full of hot air i should have floated away, but instead preyed on what was available and was grounded by that universal sense of humour called offspring. now i long to be dominated. or at the very least, to be advised. guided. supported. grounded.
grounded. grounding. i was grounded by my parents often in my youth, but had no concept of what it meant to be grounded the way i more commonly use the word now. i wonder what getting grounded would have been like, if i'd had actual tools for grounding. what would my teenage world have been like with meditation, sage to burn or vetivert to rub on my feet. i suppose i unknowingly used tobacco and journaling, possibly in excess, as that was what was available: grandma's cigarettes and the words flying around in my head. get grounded asheville, before some higher power grounds us with water, wind or fire.
thank you for your acceptance and your tolerance. i will choose whiskey and self-love any day of the week, but i will embrace your beer and self-loathing if you promise to pitch in on the chores. there are people here doing amazing things. they come and they go. some say they will never leave, but everything is changing. many will go back to where they came from. some will go anew, to explore the changes. the rest of us have nowhere else to go - we are road bound with roots - we belong here, nesting and creating in this valley. we have to work together so, enough with the hate. let's clear the plate and work together and grow. i may be scratching at the belly of the underdog right now, but i'll be back to ride on his brow. i stay plugged in, even when i'm cast aside. i know i can sing and i strut when i stride, but i will also admit that i'm dying inside. your hoops become boring after so many years, what's fresh to your ass is just another cheap beer in another odd year and i'm an old bitch so i can smell your fear. i wish i could tell you i loved you my dear. i know you're just hoping that you can fit in - you are going to break if you don't learn to bend. you're right in the middle - these are your friends. yet you look out at me and still need to feel big, so you kick like a donkey and snort like a pig.
deflect the hot lights and make a big stink: "please direct your attention to the lady in pink. you know her, she's crazy, she played here last year. just don't get too close or she'll bite off your ear. she loves like van gogh because we painted her so, it's amazing what projections can form, don't you know.... " and i can be one in your stable of fools, because that's what you do when you're young, rich and cool, right? surround yourself with a circle of jewels. other young talent with promise and hope. be careful, lest you end up with far too much rope. like santa on easter with halloween elves, i hate it when the chosen go and hang themselves. the brain goes insane from too much refrain, so please keep it fresh and tighten the reigns and don't let the horses get put up so wet, you'll be living out songs and grasping forgrets, wondering how everything got so over the top and wishing the carousel knew how to stop but the horses go up and the tigers go down and the ticker tape paper blows all over town.
wake up asheville. the smoke has cleared. there's no room left for fear. especially of each other.
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