Being a paid writer has killed me.
Probably dirty terry (dt) is dead. He died a while back. I know this blog gets the most hits out of all my blogs, but the writer has been jeopardized. There is no more dirty terry, the idea that he was has vanished as a fart in the wind, as the sun in winter. Probably absorbed into something more poignant like black soil.
Who dt was, was a thought. An image, a joke—someone similar to Dirty Harry (of course the play on the name), and still the opposite in an street silly urbane fashion. He was clearly not real, and what he said was questionable. The thought that dt encompassed no longer exists, and should be dealt with as such.
When this author had wrote as the aforementioned person, he had relations with various sordid specimens, no time to think, process, make, create, or be, he had little confidence, and he possessed a reality that was based upon exploiting the unknown—and that idea was scary, instead of worthwhile. Now, except for the latter uncertainty the author’s life is the antithesis of what it was, and not.
dt no longer exists here in the flesh, or in the mind of flesh—in tips of the fingers, but, perhaps, only in a dusty spirit stuck between webpages and nowhere. Where dt once gave himself away for nothing, he now rests in peace in a box of other blogs on the internets, and in obscurities. There is nothing left in the moniker, except for the unknown and oblivion.
In life we all see changes. The person we are now is not the person we once were. People die. We grow. And the world keeps spinning around whether we wish it to or not. The author understands and realizes the insignificance of this informal eulogy, and the significance. This site will still stay up, but not in the same capacity it once was, not in the same fashion. That spirit is dead.
You see, when dt died so did the young child hoping for a chance at shocking the world outward with what existed within. There is nothing more to do, nothing crazy enough to surmount—this chapter had come to a close like a bank vault on Friday night. That is just how it is. One comes to a fork in the road and they must choose. Go forward, left or right, or walk back… One must go forward in any new direction.
As I said earlier this week in another fleeting medium on social media, the moniker does not make the artist, the voice does. So when dt passed so did his voice in a way—this is directly inspired by Stephen King’s explanation of Richard Bachman in the foreword to The Running Man. The capricious free-wheeling all-concerned with appearance and reputation artist had become too caught up, essentially bored, with what that idea had to offer. Had become something not planned by someone who doesn’t plan.
All in all—I hate that easily thrown out phraseology—dt has reincarnated himself into a modern animal more closely succinct, more driven – in a way that is impactful rather than merely shocking or feigning misguided or esoterically elusive. Nothing was said, but nothing was understood. And in that, confusion caused more confusion and lack of attention to important concepts and words, and blah blah blah—I read different.
Yes, some things that have happened were great. They were wonderful. But there is a time when the book must stand back in the library, when the candle must burn out, when reality must become actuality and a person must step away from the molt they have shed. This blog is my molt. I shed it now, but with love, and still will.
In the next few months—or never, you will see new flesh shine. You will see something fresh, pink, wet; you will see something important to the person who writes it, or nothing. You will see nothing other than passion. This passion will be obvious in a way that simple words will cause you strong feeling, and that strong feeling will be the objective proof (if there is such a thing in the written language).
And with that, may dt rest in peace, and may his words and dialogue continue to inspire you each day as he has for me. Once and always, I hope you think about any and everything that happens to fall in front of you, even if it is this. –The Author