Come forth to this den of shadows and thought, lay yourself beside the fire and take ear and heart to my tale. Such a tale that might stir with in your soul memories of your own struggles and dare I say ... epic moments? As such for this to truly attain the stature it so deserves I stand before you, a humble story teller, clothed only in his talent. Instead I call to those greater than I who might guide my fingers so that all those who might take forth this tale will give it a home in their minds to inspire their own lives. As such might Thalia push forward my goal and give grace to Euterpe as her spirit lay among all who live within this story! O muses come down to this humble vessel and give rise to words too simple without your presence!
Follow shall we a modern soul, gripped tightly by those great works of modern music! He finds drive, meaning, and solace in the melodies and rhythms of a band who speaks in simple prairie ways, and tells stories dark yet comforting. Like young gods they straddle the imagination of our hero, these Men who Watch. It is to them he gives sacrifice of time and soul, to them he listens when life has troubled him, and to them he cries out and screams along in pain to their words when they rip open the scarred wounds of his soul.
Three times our hero has attempted to worship directly at the temple of The Watchmen. For 18 years he has struggled, through lives and times, children and several families. He has grown and faced fearsome demons, become one himself and yet through that he has clung to that simple mode of worship. The slide of a thin plastic shelf, the laying of another piece of plastic holding encoded and etched foil. The light press of a button, and then the hammering driving sounds of drums, base guitar and a voice howling out from the cold wind of desolation. Letting the music fill his mind, soul and body. Crashing waves of sound that move the physical into ecstatic praise, raise shouted notes from his throat. Yet all from a distance.
He has never been at the foot of the gods, this young hero. Instead this man of animal made has been denied a more intimate setting, a more personal touch by circumstance, theft and timing. All the universe has decreed that this man shall not make his pilgrimage to the steps of the temple to lay himself before the crush of sound and fury. But not now.
18 years since the first chance, 18 years and so many leagues. 18 years and here in a simple prairie celebration of light and commerce, the young gods, perhaps not so young, have come and our hero shall place himself amongst the throng and cry out his worship to them directly! Oh so beautiful.
Yet still the universe turns, and still the miles and miles of change and distance reach out and slowly one last tendril of denial reaches blindly out to entrap our hero, grasp him and yank him away from his worship. It is past time for the gods to take their stage, and a small chirping leads to the reaching for pockets. All in the small knot of people who have gathered look and then point almost accusingly at the hero, 'It's you!'
He answers, and there is hesitation. The young bear phones to tell our hero she has lost the password. She is trapped in the ground between home and outside with her friend and little sister, a bright and loud crow. 'WHAT!?' and the crowd turns. They stare at our hero as the pain erupts in his mind. Not again, oh no not again. He is to be denied a fourth time! 'You lost your key!? You can't get into the house?!' His mind races, because it is not so simple as merely missing out. His children are not safe. And even were he to leave it would be forty minutes to an hour of them waiting.
Wait!! Inspiration, Euterpe calls out and whispers in our hero's ear. So a call is sent out amongst the ether, and a voice answers on the other end. 'Boardwalk, Wascana Estates.' Quickly our hero outlines the situation and the taker of cares responds most pleasingly. 'Yeah I was going there right now, be five ten minutes, I can let them in.' Relief, but not yet fully realized, hits our hero. He calls back to the young ones huddled in the annex, they are crying both from fear of our hero's call for consequence but also for fear of a lost home. Given the proper instruction the children are soothed, in fact laughing occurs for now it has become ... humorous. Shall our hero once again be denied? NO!! He shall worship.
The sound of the Boneyard Tree smashes flat the fear of these people. Will they still be gods? Our hero looks around. Everyone shows grey, wrinkles. They come with children, even in strollers, toddlers toddling, and he feels his age for a brief time. For a precise moment he is both our hero, a thirty something with two children, feeling every ache and pain from a long day of work, and someone elses hero, a 16 year old kid, bound tight in used and sweaty equipment, earphones pushed down hard as he amps himself to do battle on the gridiron. All those heros in between then and now voice themselves, and with a thunderous growl leap from his throat as he sings thrashes, cries out, dances, his body moves without prompting and his fist raises to the sky.
The song echoes out in the end, and our hero, so much more than that singular man looks about, bright hot eyes scratch at the crowd and he moans to the tight knot of people near him, 'How the hell do I start a mosh pit with all these kids around?!' Laughter, and he laughs but there is a note of sadness. He wishes to prostrate himself completely before these young/old gods who appear no different than they did nearly twenty years ago. But like all things that move through time, compromise is learned.
He lets the music, both old and new, loudly smash him as he smashes back. He notices those who notice him. Few show his verve but our hero will not be contained fully. He has compromised but he has not stopped. He shouts out encouragement to the young child, no more than 6 who stands atop a tree stump, her little fist raised to the sky as she dances like a fairy on top of no more than a foot width of wood four feet high in the air. 'Best seat in the house!' he shouts and she smiles back and pumps her fist harder.
The crowd becomes All Uncovered as the music of sin rises to the crowd. A song extolling the virtues of oral sex while driving yet touches on the more soulful matters, and still our hero watches and worships. 'I'm standing in a crowd of my peers, singing about blow jobs, while children of my peers run about and dance to the music.' The horns come up on the fist, 'Fucking A!!'
It ends too soon... our hero craves more, NEEDS more. He wants to spend all night all day all night all forever listening to them, let them feed his soul and earn his redemption through music, and finally he can feel it coming to an end yet while he knows there is no real connection between himself and the gods, young gods so old yet so powerful. they speak and he hears their words and listens. I'm still gone and so is she, let her go so many other fish in the sea(see) mate. A brighter hell awakens his fears, and yet he is like their fabled stereo, battered and wired all wrong yet able to make and move more with a simple sound loop. And yet they come back for one more song. One more strike and our hero feels it, and it breaks him into tiny pieces and he falls amongst his peers like confetti, watching them all, and maybe they don't feel it, maybe they do. They do, some eyes light on his and he smiles, smiles are passed. It becomes confusing and almost carnivalesque as the world spins, and he learns and lives.
Our hero walks away, his friend Das Verlorene und das Verärgert still not quite knowing what our hero speaks of. He has been reconfirmed, he is still a member of the faithful, and he takes what he does. Yet expresses it the only way he knows how.
Ohmigawd whaddagreatfucking concert!!!!
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