Evil Monkey: Sound bite.
Evil Monkey: Sound bite.
Evil Monkey: It’s twitter code for something interesting.
Evil Monkey: We’re hummingbirds. It’s what we say between the beats of the wings. Not the fluttering itself.
Jeff: We’re hummingbirds?
Evil Monkey: No, we’re the vibration of air between the wingbeats. You must condense your message to a single syllable of a haiku. My, it’s taken too much energy to express that.
Jeff: I love words. Lots of words. I miss letters. I miss getting letters. I miss getting long letters and opening them while sitting at a stone table under a willow tree and reading the accumulated thoughts of friends put together over another stone stone table, maybe sitting by the river, watching the kingfishers dive to catch fish.
Evil Monkey: It’s not that world any more. You must express yourself in monosyllables. Your consciousness must be measured across the span and scan of moments.
Jeff: But I want to be more fulsome. I want to ignite and expand like something more…serious.
Evil Monkey: Serious is out. Sound bite is in.
Jeff: Sound bite nourishes not the soul.
Evil Monkey: The soul can be nourished with softcore porn and a brewski, dude.
Jeff: What? This hairy, smelly beast before me–he must be a minion of Hell.
Evil Monkey: Consider this. You read everything, and you read it in depth instead of skimming it, as most bloggers do. You read everything, you absorb all of it. All of the sorrows, all of the humor, all of the absurdity. And then you: express yourself about it. No one cares. It is the same as if you skimmed it and you put forward an opinion expressed as cynical little caveats. You could get it done. You could get a lot done.
Jeff: I don’t want to get a lot done, Evil! I want to absorb. I want to be the tree that sucks up the nutrients slowly through its roots, until the results flow up through its branches, its leaves!
Evil Monkey: Then you need a time machine.
Evil Monkey: You need to go back in time until you find a point at which you are comfortable. Do you understand?
Jeff: Not entirely.
Evil Monkey: Jeff. We live in the future. The future is Winzipped. The future encodes its own becoming.
Jeff: That makes no sense.
Evil Monkey: That, too, is the future, Jeff.
Jeff: Then I want to live in the past.
Evil Monkey: This is my point, dear master. That is my point.
Jeff: Carry on, then. Build a freeway across my front yard. Pluck out my weeds. Excoriate my air. Condense me to a syllable…can I pick the syllable?
Evil Monkey: No, that is up to your readers. Your readers shall choose the syllable, and that syllable shall be the sword that sweeps down upon you.
Jeff: How can you say that as you fling your feces across the wall, Evil?
Evil Monkey: It is in our extremes that our essential nature is found.
Jeff: This I see as a kind of viscous truth, monkey. Yes. Yes, I do.