The PK 27 -- Track 20/20

Our reader would find this astonishing, I'm sure, but only a select few frequent this site. Hell, excluding my colleagues, Sparky's mum, that chubby girl that Kmart takes everywhere and the Google spider that relentlessly searches the Internet for greatness, it's really just you, dear reader. Well, you and the guys looking for pictures of Nancy Lang naked - and that's usually just me and my colleagues.

But rue your solitude not, sir or madam, for you are a witness. A lone witness.

See, what you have here is the blog equivalent of a pick-up game, in a quiet suburban park, with maybe just a wide-eyed kid and a couple of old folks watching absently. Manifold not. And five guys that can flat out play. Manigault yes.

Fuck the association.

I've seen some game on this court, so has that kid. I wrote about the pen and the roundball being the same, way back when. Truth still holds. All told.

In a field of dreams.
Stands an old hoop with no net.
French Lick, Ind'ana.

Haiku me not.

What we do here is write, right? Whether it's a short story, an interview, a lesson, a review, a joke or, insh'allah, a tome -- what we're looking for is one in the same: Perfection. Looking for the ideal form, an infinite arc, nothing but net. No flash, no gimmicks, no fancy shorts. Just dusted Chucks, TMH's funky tube socks and some pornography for the rainy days.

Praise we seek not. If these guys tell me I'm right, that's all I can ask for. If you want to stick around, kid, welcome aboard. And if not, forget us not, for the fact is, you were here. You were once a witness to it. Even if you didn't realise at the time. Folly of youth and all that.

We know that we'll be long dead before before scientists and theologians again discuss etching a snapshot of life on a gold disc and slipping it out into that implacable ether. We'll be ashes when the dust is first blown from that record. Gone like Blind Willie.

Cold will be the ground.

But that's not what motivates us. For now, each of us is satisfied to pursue perfection. Shoot the roundball and if something, anything, we write sticks and is added to that record... well, sir, that'd be nice. And if it don't, hell, we'll never breathe a word of our loss, because in the end, it was all about the game anyway.

In the meantime, kid, you're welcome to watch, but if you wanna play, you best pick up the fucking ball.



Blind Willie Johnson
Dark was the night, cold was the ground.