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+---- Thread: Ain't Going Out Like Osamu Dazai (/showthread.php?tid=47821)
Ain't Going Out Like Osamu Dazai - VicVernacular - 07-19-2024
A flush of static. It roars to life on the screen before the incandescent glow snaps to the distorted bleed of colors; the kind anyone familiar with the natural artifacts of VHS's would know. Into the light as it were; the birth of a first impression. Through the colors is the shaky handheld shot of a backyard. Plain as the straight cut invasive grass that covers it from end to end, vague trinkets of childhood memories littered about; it could be found in the mind's eye of anyone you asked to imagine the term 'suburban'.
Distant sounds of summer fill the silence with an ambiance; Children's cries of play, thumping music of passing cars with windows rolled down, the many porch-and-lemonade conversations happening all through the neighborhood; the motion of a life made still.
Did it take you somewhere specific? To a place where maybe you first heard a song that would stick with you all your life? Maybe a memory of an unimportant day where you felt the joy of existing unbothered? Aesthetics is a powerful thing, linked in shared experience, it could be overwhelming. The subliminal play of images and impulses firing off in the limbic system. I want you to connect to me. Not like me. I want you to feel something without me saying it. I am playing with your continuity, your instinct, I want the points between what I am expressing and what you feel to be as direct a line as possible.
Because if I have to speak it, to rationalize what is happening, it kills the breath of art in the crib which it is born in and thus I am expressing nothing. My message dies. This is my last chance at a first impression, so it means everything.
So this is my vision.
Vision was necessary. It is an ascended level of mastery over the game others seem to lack. The number of deftless hands across this industry is great and far reaching. However they are powerful, adept in the ways of brutality I am not, and thus it is important to set myself out in some way.
"Whaddup chat, its ya boi" the camera turns to me in the Bart Simpson T-shirt and JNKO jeans combination that might seem peculiar to some but all too painfully real to others, "The Ill Chiller, the mic sniping assassin, the favorite child of MCA, Ad-Rock, and Mike D coming at ya from the old for the new. That's right we back here at the Vic Cave in The Rock of Illinois, but we ain't reachin' for the lights of gymnasiums and Vet Halls anymore. The money finally came calling and we big time now!"
-_-_-
There are a multitude of poets who exist in the kaleidoscopic spectrum of the written word, and millions more who exist in the realm of thought that will never be put to paper, and in those that do manage to find the page, and among those who manage to find the will to pursue publication or at least to be heard, the most prominent is the kind who dwells delightedly in the shadows of the giants; the milquetoast undisciplined mimics who recreate the same stanzas of Bukowski's until either people stop saying crying his name or until time no longer provides people.
Well versed in the words of others, adding to the sea of played out tropes and pseudo-philosophical constructs, they are fodder. Turning the turn of literary tools into bromides and platitudes that carry nary a single sense of impact and leaving them to fade, nothing more than steps for more exacting minds to climb atop of.
All of this to say that you ain't shit if you can't make the world feel like you're the shit.
So were the thoughts of the protagonist of our little Künstlerroman, a Stephen Dedalus-styled figure -to all of your James Joyce fans and haters out there- that we will refer to from here on out at 'Vincent Minos'. He takes a sip of his drink while sitting at the bar as one face on stage passes the microphone to another to share the next trite expedition into weak self-expression. Another voice filling up the space made up of voices, all trying to yell, scrape, and gesticulate their way into being important, known, or powerful. But they never do. They capture a few fans, but it is playing the arena by its rules, and thus you become a fixture, scenery. Anyone who has ever sipped from the golden chalice knows you need to make the arena play by your rules, that's how you become the hand that breaks the neck of rome.
It never changes no matter the venue or medium. So the drink in his hand is to force those voices deeper into the sediment, to set them deeper as stage dressing for himself.
“Look who it is,” a voice calls through the dense buzz at the bar, “Vincent, drink in hand, all thought and no socializing. Didn’t think I’d see you in these parts again.”
“Franklin,” he greets the voice with a quick gesture, motioning his drink towards the figure without turning to peer at the approach, “Turns out olympus isn’t so far from Chicago.”
“Funny as always,” Franklin takes a seat next to him, an invasion of space Vincent silently cursed.
“Imagined my presence barely missed,” or so he had hoped, knowing that returning to gaze into the fish tank he lept from would be made all the more insufferable if he stood out.
“Oh far from true,” there was a smile across his compatriot’s lips, but if it was genuine or sarcastic, Vincent could barely tell, “as soon as you made your way to other things, it was pretty widely felt. Undoubtedly some of us asked questions and all roads lead to an interesting answer.”
“Wouldn't have guessed it?”
“Wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it,” Franklin laughed as he waved for a bartender and ordered a drink of his own. He was now settled in, quite the unfortunate outcome. The blusterous blowhard was bound to ruin the gentle calm Vincent had created in his isolated judgment, “I mean easily enough to imagine that life had gotten the best of you and kept you away. It was originally just something of a wellness check trying to look out for you, but to see you wrestling?”
“Is it that odd?” Vincent refused to turn his way. Refused to make this interaction feel wanted or the question warranted, “I’m sure you could throw a stone and hit a wrestling fan in the crowd or in the back. Seems like something of a close minded perspective to see it as so impossible a transition.”
“Being a fan is one thing I guess,” the fool took this as an invitation to discuss, to churn the cauldron of thought, instead of the rebuke it was meant to be, “But for you it was quite out of character. And speaking on such, you’ve found quite a… character for yourself. Loud, obnoxious, beyond insufferable by design it seems. Doesn’t it feel a bit like lying to the audience to present yourself in such an… over-the-top way?”
“Consider this,” Vincent’s grip tightened around his glass, trying to repress the sigh he so badly wanted to let out, “There is a word for someone so devoid of facets that he does not carry a part of him that someone would consider ‘out-of-character’. There is also a word for someone so without surprises that they live thinking the same is true for those around them.”
“Oh?” Franklin cocked an eyebrow and like that set himself up.
“Boring,” Vincent decided this would be the right time to face the opposition in this tête-à-tête. The smugness in Frank-o-boy’s face hadn’t changed. It permeated every word that left his mouth and as soon as he had heard the call from across the bar, Vincent could picture each line without fail, “It is a boring person to peer at what I do and look at it as lesser, to peer the facade I don and see it as an outright lie instead of an extension of myself that I bring to its logical extreme.
“There are no lesser mediums, just lesser parasites who weigh any form down. It takes true ascension and awareness of the depths of the form that shows its potential. If we were to judge the written word by its pulp entries, by its weakest wordsmiths, then literature would be no higher on the totem, relegated to sleezy behind-the-counter purchases as one takes home a book with the same kind of shame one looks at much smut.
“You can present all this as cheerily and as in good will as you like, but there is not a single subtle inch to you that does not get blasted into deafness from how obvious you are in every other way. To say you found it as a surprise is to say you found it with disdain. To say it seemed out of character is to say it seemed so below the fictitious form of me that you had created in your head as to warrant demeaning and disbelief.
“So empty and flat you are that all you have are your words, so devoid of tools you are that you can only imagine yourself here, only doing this. I had no such beliefs. I was free to leave here as soon I felt the need, so vast were my choices, my potential. I could leave this hole-in-a-wall because I had no illusions that forced me to tie myself to this place like an anchor out of fear that if I ventured to far, that there would be nothing left to tether to,” the blood ran hot, Vincent’s spite with a firm hold, taking the conversation away from the both of them and turning it into a cathartic beating in one direction, “Truth is, I left because I saw bigger things and a potential in wrestling that I saw missing in the world of writing.”
“Oh?” Franklin had been completely knocked askew by the outburst, barely holding himself in place, both trapped into the icy grip of this confrontation.
“I can take out the parasites who hold wrestling down and make it better as a whole, one by one,” Vincent pushed his drink away and stood sharply from his seat, “consider yourself very lucky we can’t say the same here.”
“Is that a threat?” he seemed taken aback. Franklin probably had expected nothing but empty pleasantries and inane catching up.
“No, just a reminder that you need to get a second hobby, broheme,” Vincent looked down at the man, seeming like a poor reflection of an old self. Soon the vitriolic anger subsided and all there was left was an exhaustion. Staring at the cowarding that hid behind Franklin’s eyes, it felt like futility. He let out the sigh and turned away, stepping towards the maw of night once more, “Nevermind, Frank, keep at it, mind your business, and it might turn a dime, even if it never turns a head.”
Why had Vincent made his way out here? What put him back at that bar where he knew there was nothing for him? Because he needed to see it all. He needed this back and forth. In his heart it solidified everything he knew to be true. It was his existence and it was meant to burn all of this down and make something new. That’s what it meant to be the best. It got boring here and it was time to climb new ladders. A small scene in a larger story, a larger legacy.
-_-_-
In front of the peering eye, the friend of any performer, the camera, I could see “Franklin’s” face, a figure among thousands that would be forced to watch this rise. Somewhere in the back of my head, the backyard I stand in represents that. The humble beginnings and how in a single wave, I was going to move to the top of the pile. Not by screaming, clawing, and gesticulating. Not by playing to the tune of the conductor and all of his conventions, but by my own means. If no one can read my Finnegan’s Wake, my Absalom Absalom, it hardly mattered. It’s time to captivate.
“You know real recognizes real and the suits put ya boi in that pay-per-view debut spot,“ hitting a little dance in excitement, “ain’t nothin’ but the best for the Schoolyard Bullies, getting that first chance in the last dance. A perfect opportunity to drop that knowledge on some unsuspecting punks, ya feel me?
“See, up until now you’ve been ignorant, but don’t worry I’m putting you on game and letting you know.
“Y’all been sittin’ in a day dream, thinking Mufasa tellin’ you all the light touches is gonna be yours. So I see you, hittin’ that pavement, trying to make those stars align, but I gotta keep it real with you. They got you on that punk-ass mark shit and you fell for it. You talk like god but walk like Jamestown; so into yourself you don’t see the law comin’. By then it’s too late, reality hits and you realize all you’re really doing is keeping the ring warm for me until I get there.
“Now, don’t get it twisted. You know it's all love with the Dictionary Dynamo, I ain’t even reachin’ for your throats, but I’m serious ‘bout this game, even if you don’t believe me, I am out to take everything; the fame, the fortune, the adoration. Hell, I’m gonna put your car in my name and walk out with the keys. I’m gonna play it so hard that at the end of the day I’m gonna make your fans love me more than they love you.
“You could have woken up in a manger with a prophecy written in gold, I don’t care how many seventh sons of seventh sons, how many bishops or what ancient tomes it could be written in. I’m still gonna be there to light the match and burn all of that shit, because. It. don’t. matter. You ain’t the main show, you’re just side attractions. I’mma disabuse you of any other notion, because all of you are gonna talk yourselves in circles while the realness is pimp walking right past you. After tonight there are only two positions, and while I’m serving the dinner you all are gonna be in the back doing the dishes.
“And it ain’t because you’re not good. I’ve been doin’ my deep dive and not a single one of you escaped my eye. Boxer’s, judo-bros, and rough rippin’ daredevil’s alike are the styles I usually fuck wit’.
“I mean, my dude Garcia, I’m sure you got that Andalusian Dog like my boy Luis Bunuel would dream of. If we grapple I’m sure I’m gettin tossed. I mean, I prefer to watch Muay Thai, but at least it ain’t Jiu-Jistu, am I right? Ain’t much of a fighting style if I can just… stand up, right?
“Prince Adeyemi, I ain’t ever put my dukes up against a motherfucker from the boroughs and don’t think I don’t spy how you could take my head off with that… whaddya call it? Blade sharpener? Sure it's left people eatin teeth before. I’m not gonna put disrespect on your name, but tell me, you an in-fighter? With that kind of power, I bet you are. Gonna just have to keep on my feet and stay on the outside.
“Sahara, you and me, we share a lot, don’t we? Both risk takers, for both good and bad, in the ring and out, yeah? I got that Jordan jump, I can’t wait to compare it to yours. More importantly though, we both Illinois natives! Fuckin’ O’Hare airport is a nightmare, am I right?
“See, my point is I’m not comin’ in half-cocked runnin’ my mouth off, because any other of the day of any other year, I’d put an easy three G’s on one of your takin’ it from here, but timing be a bitch like that and now you gotta stand there across from me, myth bustin’ all that shonen jump protag non-sense you’ve been holdin’ onto until now.”
My hand covers the camera lens and some temporal trickery a la Kubrick-2001-style takes place and as I pull away we’ve shifted miles and days away into something far grander. The fuzz of archaic camcorder technology shifts into something far clearer, moving on its own as I descend down an empty entrance ramp into the greater part of the arena, empty seats expanding outwards to contrast the yard and give meaning to such phrases as ‘started from the bottom now we’re here.’
“See, you still thinkin’ we’re all wrestling under the same banner, but the truth is that I’m makin’ XWF mean ‘my house’ and soon all of you are gonna be payin’ rent just to be here,” I can’t stifle the laugh. How wild it was to portray a vision, to have the budget, to no longer be hindered by small minded bookers.
“Audentes fortuna iuvat, bitches!” I take a seat on the ring apron, the Leap of Faith banner underneath, leaning back on the ropes as I hold my arms out to either side, as if to say ‘look at all of that which has become mine’, “I don’t know what that shit means. I asked my friend Shaun to give me some sick Latin phrases, and you know he wouldn’t leave me hangin’. Think I should ask the pope what it means? Either that or google translate.
“But let me reel it back a bit,” I reach out and a helpful off screen hand tosses me one of the toys previously seen in the yard back home. Slightly caked with dirt, worn by time, but plastered with the same plastic smile it had when it was shiny and brand new, “No matter where I go, I don’t forget where I come from. This ain’t small town rebel talk, this is just facts.
“I’ve been small, poor, and beaten seven shades of purple straight into the dirt. I’ve woken up on a monday, swung on a tuesday, got knocked down on a wednesday, slept on a thursday, got back up on a friday, got back to work on a saturday, and got some rest on a sunday. That’s the tale of ole Solomon Grundy and I can as soon as go back to that without missing a beat.
“What I am asking is could any of you?” I point the toy at the camera, I want them to feel the question. It's not rhetorical, at least not for them. A part of them should wonder, “I ain’t stupid. I know life comes at you fast, the circumstance shuffle hits you out of nowhere and then you are flat on your ass. Despite all my jawin’ I could walk out of the fucking Vatican without so much a pot to piss in, but when I say I’m making this place mine, I mean that. Because I don’t stop scratchin’ my head wondering where it all went, I am gonna fuckin’ swing ‘til there aren’t any arms to swing, I’mma be so persistent that no one can think of anyone but me. Do you get it?”
“I will say though,” I toss the toy casually to the side. Blessed be the things of our past, reminders to move forward so they shan’t hold us in place, “Any of you fucks beat me, you best get to the top of the ladder that night, because I’m not gonna be made out to be a punk-ass bitch to someone who could only be second best.”
With a wink to the camera and a smile so sly you could call it cooper, I lay an arm over the rope and take the light overhead. This all felt so natural. I could tell already, I was meant to be here.
“What’s left to say dude and dudettes, I guess it all comes down to Sunday, so all we gots to do is wait. I don’t know about y’all, but I think I’m gonna imbibe the local color and make like the saying and ‘party like a roman’ or whatever it is.
“Until then, you know how it is. Vicmaster nine thousand is out y’all.” And with that it goes to the dark, the place of amorphous potential. Though Vernacular goes to sleep, the real Vic sits on the edge of that ring and composes himself.
This is my canvas.
This is where I work.
My hand shakes, the grandness of this stage is not lost on me. In one of the most renowned cities in the world I was going moving from paid-in-peanuts wrestling in front of the unwashed masses to displaying every bit of fight in front of a million watching eyes all linked back to the same monster, the slobbering beast of the audience that will eat me whole if I spend even a single moment not completely aware of its hungry glare.
With a deep breath I slip off the apron and take it all in.