There was a town, once. Sadly it’s not there now, but it
used to breathe light, and hope, and life, and laughter. You won’t find it on
any map, but it did exist and it was a glorious place – once.
So you’re asking what happened to a place that looked,
and smelt, and tasted like a little piece of heaven?
Its disappearance was not so much anyone’s fault, as the
fault of nature. Nature or the universe or gods (you choose) set the rules –
and the rules say that most folks fit into a big middle piece of ground and
that’s where they stay. That’s the kinda glue that holds the whole mess
together – at least, some might say that.
But look at it the other way, if you weren’t in the big
mess in the middle, then you were special, different, and talented even. Those
on one side of the big mess were maybe not as smart or as sociable as the rest –
while those at the other side were maybe, eccentric, or full to the brim with
just plain living.
And those in the middle, they were the majority and would
therefore have the last word on everything – really. The problem is life don’t
really live in the middle ‘cause these folks are just the glue. Some folks are
born to greatness and some folks are just the sticky stuff – that’s just the
way life is.
At the start of the life of this little, of which I
speak, there was a lot of getting on together. People just rubbed along and
most times that worked. But then one little boy, called Artie decided to paint
his mother’s fence something other than white – he painted it pink – cause that’s
the kind of colour that made Artie happy.
Well, it wasn’t long before the sticky folks in the
middle were up in arms against that sort of thing – because it made them happy
to be up against something. Believe it or not, being destructive was their way
of being creative. Artie was punished by painting his fence back to its
original white and he had to re-paint everyone else’s fences too.
The thing that didn’t strike the sticky folks in the
middle was, that it was those on the outside who wrote the books, who painted
the pictures, who made the movies that kept them all entertained.
The more they banished colour, they more they banished
laughter and hope and music. Sticky folks are usually content folks, and so
they don’t get around to being creative (in a good way). They look for the others,
the outsiders to entertain them, as long as they know their place, that is.
So slowly but surely, the little town became a study in
black and white. And the nonentities took over running the place. They couldn’t
create music or plays or movies – so they put on quizzes and that was that as
far as entertainment went.
Eventually people found the little town safe but boring
and soon each of the families moved on.
Within a year there was nothing left, only Artie and his
family. Artie decided to paint one last thing before they hitched up their
wagon and got on their way:
“The little town that was killed by the mafia of the
mediocre”
Amen to that.
bobby stevenson 2016
wee bobby
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