Mildly Buzzed

Buford Youthward

Every image has its inversion. Crowns become fangs. Suns become Moons. Crosses, daggers. So it goes.

Image and meaning share in the symbolization. To symbolize, to represent is mere alibi. I can live with that, it's the best choice. Daggers did damage but I'm no better, no worse for it.

What goes bump in the night is personal business. Property. No graffiti granted, nothing gained. I always loved that quote: in order to have a triumphant return, one must first leave. Minor gestures of madness, mad gestures of greatness collide, coincide time to time. People drink coffee in the meantime.

I guess that's what you're supposed to do. Life becomes homework. Pack accordingly. Show up. Hit it, quit it, never forget it. Try to care. The west side of heaven, the north side of nowhere.

Invention is all I'm trying to care about. Get yourself pointed straight ahead to the form then let go. Saxophones blow in the wind, syncopated sadness. Human condition.

So we wonder about conditioning as conventioneers convoy over broadcast beams. My medium is set to mild buzz so I may not always know. But if you come by the bylines, I at least show up.

On the internet words slip by across blip screens horizontally and slightly vertical. It's not the same as music, it's a waterfall but without the beauty. Words hold no majesty. Overstating function is fallacy. Falling for false gods, getting real gone for the neighborhood has its charm. Character and charisma can keep you strong only for so long.

Rooftop adventures on Saturday nights can contain plenty fever. The excitement of youth, the ritual of righteousness in the wrongest way. Words cannot capture -- films, books, zines, photos cannot contain. The contamination of graffiti isn't to blame.

Spray gently into the good night, scheme with style, think good things. But get back to where you got up now and again.

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