ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
Proud founder and president of Crazy Clown Productions (c) [October 2000]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (10) Dragonball Z - Akira Toryama's Drug Trip? (Essays) An essay worthy of the label of Crazy Clown, about the sheer ludicrousnessness of Dragonball Z. [989 words] [Humor] Some Explanation Is In Order (Essays) You might come to this title expecting a deep, philosophical, or thought-provoking story; instead, you get this! It is an explanation of my rather unique writing style, by Crazy Clown. [447 words] [Humor] The Demented Monologue Of A Downright Imbecile (Essays) Another display of foolishness and inanity, from the one who can do them best, Crazy Clown. Requires an altered state of mind to fully enjoy. [1,246 words] [Humor] The Insane Ramblings Of A Complete Idiot (Short Stories) An essay on the insane ramblings of a complete idiot. Written by a complete idiot. Requires an altered state of mind to properly enjoy. [1,090 words] [Humor] The Test (Short Stories) My first publishing-worthy (at least I hope) short story, on the topic of what religion is, was, and what may become... [1,118 words] [Spiritual] The Unfortunate Homophobe (Essays) An interspective on a homophobe who wishes he wasn't, and some ideas and opinions on homosexuality. [1,131 words] [Gay & Lesbian] The Vaporeal Defecation Of A Mental Diarrheatic (Essays) I just had so much fun writing the other two displays of inanity that I just had to write a third. Depending on how much you like my works, this could be either wonderful or horrifying, your choice. -... [951 words] [Humor] Vanquished (Short Stories) Death, Revenge, Death. Misery has gone full circle. [894 words] [Action] Well, Shit (Essays) A rather... interesting essay on the worlds worst waste. Requires a unique state of mind to enjoy properly. [1,020 words] [Humor] Wrong, Wrong, Wrong! (Short Stories) When did being almost right, but still showing inderstanding of the question, be considered completely wrong? Wouldn't it be better to be smart then to simply be able to memorize? [566 words] [Mind]
The Muse Keeps On Crazy Clown
Nothing was heard throughout the house but the eerie, ever-present clacking of the revered and battle-worn keyboard, save for the barely audible throbbing of a single human heart and the faint sighing of breath that were the only signs of life in anything but the hands of the solitary man, hunched over the keyboard in the flooding darkness of the night. The hands were not a part of the man, furiously soaring over the keys as if fleeing some unseen enemy, time, starkly contrasting the utterly still personage. The man gave nary a thought to sleep or rest, nor to the thought of relaxing his feverish pace for but one
second; if he dared, his entire being, his essence, would collapse and flutter away in the
breeze like some unattended and disregarded refuse on a cruel, unrelenting street. The computer, having neither a choice nor a reason to let down its master, kept up faithfully to the staccato-drumbeat of the callused and numb fingers. And so it went on, throughout the night, into the wee hours of the morning, without rest, without even a pause, the outpouring of a man's soul onto the infallible memory of his ever-present companion.
Since the beginning of mankind as a civilization, there have been those who exhibited their being onto and into the miriad of listeners, both mortal and divine. Although it was to be doubted as to if there were any who cared enough to heed the cry for attention, it did not matter to the speaker, the muse, the poet; nay, it was the telling of the tale itself that was the divine purpose, that aspiration that has been and always will be instilled in choice individuals for all of time. It mattered not if there was a spirit, a man, a sounding board for which to exhibit their innermost dreams, beliefs, thoughts and ideas, for it was and is and always will be the releasing of the demons of the tortured mind of the muse, the thoughts and ideas that insistently course through the soul of the gifted, that is of any importance in the world of truth.
In the disturbingly modern world, the cosmos of technology, the brittle shell that mankind has surrounded himself with that shall, as surely as the sun sets and rises, crack and reveal the true, noble and yet frail essence of man, there are as of yet alternative choices for the muse to exhibit his inner being, as demonstrated and, yes, flaunted arrogantly by the very manner that you, the prospective gem in a writer's eye, are
absorbing the notions and opinions and dreams of the muse and poet. Thus emerges the computer, the one creation that is able to, at once, explode and implode the art of writing, by giving it the wings to soar across the entire cosmos of man, and clipping those very wings by filling the world with attentive audiences that are promptly and continually fed absolute and terrible lies as to the true art of their disgustingly casual entertainment. It is truly a tragedy, to see and be forced to live in a world where the sacred expelling of one's soul has been delegated and degraded into nothing but bathroom reading material. A travesty of all the noble efforts of the great muses of history and before.
Despite the horrifying disfigured beast modern writing, such a word that has no equal in my fevered mind for sheer disdain, has become when one compares it to the apple in the eye of the legendary, revered, and increasingly rare muse, a cherished few still carry on the noble tradition of releasing one's soul onto and into the expansive and, common in these troubled times, depressingly desolate arena of one's personal cosmos, these to be exceedingly rarely displayed for all to see in the public courtyard of the universal consciousness and to make not a fleeting, but a lasting impression on the lives
and souls of the despairingly and quaintly different extensions of mankind as a whole. These damned and blessed few can be either consigned to a troubled existence in the shadows of the collective unconscious or be forced to spend an equally troubled yet disturbingly unequal existence of fame and fortune, the unfortunate and deceptive goals for the nonexistent average personage.
In this light we return to the muse, furiously typing his soul into the barred cage
of, and I use the word lightly, modern writing, the cage that has the glass between the bars entirely covered in unbroken and undisturbed filth, the filth of the most contagious, infective, and disease-filled plague on mankind since he began recording history; human thought, blocking his view from anything outside of the proverbial box, the limitless wonders of the unhindered imagination. The rosy fingers of Dawn stretched over the distant horizon long ago, and yet the tortured muse continues his feverish work, with nary a thought of rest, trying to capture the essence of man, his possible audience, although that is not his goal, onto the internal patterns of a man-made monstrosity to record for all eternity that he, the muse, exists.
That is the curse and the blessing of the muse; to suffer the unbearable torture of having uncountable, immeasurable thoughts and ideas that simply refuse to surrender their hold on his overtaxed mind and sacrifice themselves to the world of the written word, and yet, contrarily, to feel the exquisite joy of lessening the colossal load of these unending messages from nothingness to nothingness, that by some twist of imagination on our creator's part, are somehow intercepted and warped by the most foolish of God's creatures, by transferring them to some other entity, whether it be another man or
emptiness itself. In this light, the muse continues pounding away, towards an impossible,
yet seemingly reaching ever nearer, final destination, the final stride into the universe of
unlimited thought, the proverbial Nirvana, Heaven, Valhalla, or maybe, just maybe, the simple joy of freedom from any thought at all.
And the muse keeps on.
Crazy Clown
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