Fearsome, Loathsome, Jetsam

Quoth Wafflestein

Know this: we trollpop are legion. And as passage of day cascades into duty-less and (dare I say) quintessential night, let the strength of our numbers guide you into a firm respite of tabulation. But let not this apparent victory get beyond our collective spirit and arise into a cadence of inter-jubilational thought; for this course of action is unwarranted, unremedied (and I dare say unremediable), and premature.

 A stipulation of our key assets yields the dire truth: though much is to be celebrated, for the day is indeed a glorious one, and every second reeks upon the eyes a sight so heavenly, celebratorial, so positively incandescent, so transcendent of our sullen and tear-stricken abode that we so graciously choose to call "home," though all these things must hold key place in our hearts and minds as wonderful, perhaps even magical, we must not lose sight of our future, of the trials we have yet to face, of the glory we have not yet surpassed.

Fellow trollpops, gentle steins, dear readers of questionable origin and unquestionable taste, indigenous mountain peoples, generational fishermen of the Greater Antilles, purveyors of modern fashion, this is for you. Veterinarians, soulless slaves to corporate America, humble handsome cab drivers, belligerent school teachers, this is for you. Coin-operated laundry machine repairmen, I'm sorry, but your time has not yet come. But to the rest I say, rise, and join in the liberation of our noble dogma, join and excel in the exhortations, in the exultations, in the exacerbations of our ex-communicated and extraneous expatriates. Give rise to hollers that would shake mountains, crumble castles, and pulverize the very core of our society's finely hand-crafted pillars of oppressive anti-restitutional inflammatory condemnation. As it is written:

The Day is anon
And the hour is night
The noble, with rapiers
Thrust to the sky

In pillars of darkness
In chariots of night
The cold and the listless
The champions of light

Against every treason
Each angular foe
Shall hasten the season
and truncate the woe

The cries of the vanquished will cease
And peace will come gently
With the evening breeze

- Sturmond, Visions VI-XII

As hopelessly romantic as Sturmond's poetic utterances may be, there is truth in them that bears innumerable repeating: we have not lost. Our hope is not unfounded. There is room in the great ocular contrivance that is modern society for our kind.

Or one could read them as the deranged ramblings of a near-dead and surely near-demented bartender-cum-prophet. No interpretation is incorrect, except perhaps your perception of what, exactly, "deranged" entails. Strip the language of our own prejudices and connotations, and you may find more truth there than you had expected.

Now isn't that something to think about. :-/

"The only words I've ever regretted were these. Without them, I would be eternally content."
- Culver, Of Age and Amnesty