Words & Works of a Savage Passenger: Prologue

Being; this familiar, unfailing stutter of existence.
Why How Are we here? Yes.
Should you disagree, I will concede,
Perhaps you are somewhere else.
Why How Are you there? Yes.
Hi! So, ‘here’ we are.
Let’s, you and I, relax,
Clear our heads of complexity and conflict
And agree to disagree.
We are simply different
At our cores; opposed.
Poised in rigid relation to one another
As we are to every other,
Each unique among all things
In our structure and evolution;
We stand alone and perfect.

—savage passenger

A critique by @AnonymePlusCritiq (2003)
Republished here without permission.

A singular word is art. One of the smallest in the book with the most expansive of definitions. That single syllable embodies the shining brilliance of individuals, of whole cultures on every continent of this Earth. From breathless mountains down uncertain slopes; through hopeful hills, plains give way to desert. And that’s a lot of ground to cover. 

To get moving, let’s just say, I’ve been around. And I’ve been lucky to see so much. I’ve been driven to seek ever more. Then, when sufficiently moved, I write. I write about the things that move me. Those things that catch my eye, that snag my mind and draw me close against my will or without my notice then propel me forward in awe. 

It’s a revelatory journey between peaks. 

I’ve been blessed to summit more than my share. I’ve had the distinct pleasure of recounting the thrill, often right here on these very pages, as best I can, to you, the overwhelming majority of high-functioning, productive, reasonably inquisitive individuals with a shared appreciation for the finest examples of human expression. 

Those melodic displays of poetic imagination: they jar the senses and elevate the soul; they demonstrate beauty, illuminate truth. They defy explanation. They refuse replication. 

I’ve had the humbling honor to herald the Best. 

I’ve had the humble duty to tread the worst, to wade ever on. 

You see, the peaks are distanced by valleys of varied depth and deposit. I swear I’m knee-deep in crap more often than not. However, until recently, I was proud to say I’d never lost my footing. I’d never stubbed into a log of such offensive size and fibrous consistency as to deflect my forward momentum and lever me face-forward into the surrounding muck. 

Frankly, I’m not yet prepared to speak of it at length. To those who would heed my warning: step around.

To the rest: sandals are a bad idea; don’t bother brushing.

@AnonymePlusCritiq is a veteran arts critic and contributing editor at Barrelmonkey Press. His opinions are his own and not necessarily those of this publication.