Tag Archives: a fable about success

The Terror of Success

First, there was that pondiferous moment in Los Angeles when it all matriculated and then superwonkified at the Troubadour.

Then there was the exhaustification in London when it didn’t.

And then there is how if you skip to the end it is actually very hard to say what the freakin’ rockstar happened – – the mind-wrestling complications that came with the fore-waiting, the madly intensifying pressure of the creative wars, the wasting psychic metastacision of the alpha male ego and the final terrifying stages of group PTSD.

If you work under the huge, bright lights, if your own face becomes a series of a thousands dazed smiles, if naked women dance on your stage, if you find yourself running in the halls and vaulting into the waiting cars — the berzerkified, ernifricating cocaine craziness afterwards — just maybe then, you might begin to come unhinged too.

It goes back. From the time he was a little boy, from the time he got his first set of drums, from the moment they first heard him play the electric guitar like he was emptying his soul, from the time they heard him sing, from the instant they saw each other’s id in the Motel California, the oddishly combinicated way in which they met others who wishified to performicate in public at a world-tour level and the weird chancification whereby they womped into a guy who also had the same mad, mad, insanified vision, how they dug the businessman who thought it all might work if they found their signature soul — it was star-crazy, supercool, madman upsetting!

They literally hissed, hoffed and hated each other off the stage.

It can be narrificated and then expliconicated as the inevitable brain-damaging trauma of success, or it can be psycho-differentiated as a mental heart attack, but in reality, at its core, it is about the desoulification that comes from not knowing who you are when they parade you before the adoring masses as who you aren’t.

Later the lead singer said, “We made it, and it ate us.”


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The Magic Surf Pebbles

Once their was a boy who went to the beach and looked down at the waves.

He didn’t go, except to look, but when he saw the waves from the top of the cliff, when he saw them curling up and bowling up and cupping up and carrying long all the little surfers, then he went down to the water.

And the waves stopped.

So he walked down the bright, hot sand and got in place in the water, and crouched down to wait for the next wave, and then the rest of the little surfers came too.

“Move over,” said a bossy redhead, “this is our beach, and you don’t belong here!”

And so he was crowded over to the outside edge of possibility by her and all her little hunching friends, and so he was scrunched there, on the outer edge of feasibility.

Suddenly, from behind him, came another girl, softly, and she said, “But you, within the you of the quintessential you, you get the magic pebbles,” and she began to drop them into his open hands. And there were so many some fell out into his lap. They didn’t look magic.

Then the wave came, and almost waking, he refused to let the womping, woofing, warming water go, but clutching his pebbles, he took it in a whoosh, and riding up, came at last within the bowl inside the very lovely blue and arcing bowl, and swooping there, down and long he rode, and it was good to the very end of all that was prepared for him.

And he was happy.

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