Tiny Coolities: a Solo, Serial Networked Narrative

There is a narrative here.  I am sure of it.  Ironic tiny cool thing atop an incredible cool backdrop. What is the origin story here and what is the superpower and what is motivation for higher jonesing?

This is the story of a man who wanted attention. He wanted validation, valorization even. Unfortunately, all he knew to do was to share tiny helpfullnesses and kindities and marginally click- saving sharesomes.  

And no one shared back.  No one attended. No heed. None. No.

But he kept on because he promised he would. That was his super power—to keep on even stupidly in the face of oblivion.  

And every day, every quotidienity, he heard the common sense voices of the folk.  He found a few who took that common sense and added data to it to validate it so well that our superhero had to just nod and remark to himself and no one else because, as you will recall, he specialized in being a radio station that broadcast on dead air, he said, “Tru dat,” as he bopped down the street.

He remembered his first discovery.

It is not so much where you end or where you start, but…you do have to start somewhere.  If you lay down your marker, put a stake in that ground for all the gory world to see, then you call upon the Muse to make it happen or you make your own muse by doing so.  He thought to himself that it mattereth not.    And he whispered aloud, “It mattereth not.”  Then he shouted to the all the metes and bounds of the world of substance and shadow, “It…Mattereth….Not!”

In that moment the hissing pneumatic tire that was his brain, hell, that is everybody’s brain in this heat death universe, stopped leaking helium (you know they ain’t making any more of that!) and realized.

I can change. I can be anything or anyone I want.  That is what alchymy means.  The secret of alchymystry is that the philosopher’s stone rolls both ways, opening the resurrection and closing it, too.

But all of these radio stations are blasting out.  Some of them are a million watts and are making the fillings in my molars vibrate.  I can’t take the shouting,  Oh the noise, the noise, the humanity, the noise. I feel so weak, my signal is so weak. I am drowned out.  What is going on? What is the point?

I am not an alchymyst/alchemyst/alchemist. Not/not/not.  The notional play motif, the tribe that is not a tribe, the voices that rise Babel-like from the gigantic border radio are, well…I wish I knew what they were. I turn down the volume to barely a cat’s purr.  What do I hear?

Saved by the wisdom of comics…