Digging up the Past Part 3
More from the archives...
Mark Walsh R.I.P.
Mark Walsh was a funny guy. Everywhere he went people laughed so hard they cried. Tears and tears of wild, mad laughter. It never ended. He was THAT FUNNY. And I mean REALLY funny. He knew how to make people laugh and he shamelessly exploited his talent as often as he could, which was VERY OFTEN because people wanted him around. Until one day Mark told a supposedly funny story and nobody laughed. He couldn’t believe it. Actually, nobody could believe it. Everyone sat there stunned. They WANTED to laugh but COULDN’T. Mark flew into a rage. “LAUGH YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS. LAUGH GODDAMNIT. IT’S TIME TO LAUGH NOW…WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!?!” Mumbling something about the burdens of being an entertainer, Mark stormed out of the place with such haste and disgust that he was killed by a car as he ran across the street. The driver didn’t laugh either. And then of course, the funeral. Thousands showed up, all touched deeply by Mark’s charisma and his abrupt end. The whole place was overtaken by laughter as people shared stories about Mark’s hilarious life. Wild fits of spontaneously evolving laughter. Only the few people who were there that fateful night when Mark’s story fell flat were confused. Maybe they SHOULD have laughed. Maybe they were just ASSHOLES. Or maybe Mark was an asshole for taking his role as an entertainer so GODDAMN SERIOUSLY.
The funeral was dull and nobody cried. On the way home I saw children playing in a school yard and I was overcome by jealousy. I sat on a swing and kicked aimlessly at the gravel beneath my feet. It started to rain. There is no real measurement for the amount of pain a person experiences in a lifetime. This suddenly seems like a great tragedy. I get off the swing, kick a piece of newspaper blowing in the wind and light a cigarette while trying to ignore the pressure building in my head. I walk past a homeless man. There is no eye contact. Perhaps it is better this way. I walk over to the bus stop and wait. The bus arrives and I get on. There is a man with bad burn scarring on one side of his face and head. He is listening to a walkman. We make eye contact for a second as I take my seat. The bus smells like stale piss. I get off at my stop and wander home as people buzz around trying to feel fulfilled about something or other. I arrive at my house and open the door. I walk up the stairs and enter my bedroom. I close the blinds and bury myself under the covers. Some days the world imagines itself. Other days you have to imagine it.
Mark Walsh R.I.P.
Mark Walsh was a funny guy. Everywhere he went people laughed so hard they cried. Tears and tears of wild, mad laughter. It never ended. He was THAT FUNNY. And I mean REALLY funny. He knew how to make people laugh and he shamelessly exploited his talent as often as he could, which was VERY OFTEN because people wanted him around. Until one day Mark told a supposedly funny story and nobody laughed. He couldn’t believe it. Actually, nobody could believe it. Everyone sat there stunned. They WANTED to laugh but COULDN’T. Mark flew into a rage. “LAUGH YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS. LAUGH GODDAMNIT. IT’S TIME TO LAUGH NOW…WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU??!!?!” Mumbling something about the burdens of being an entertainer, Mark stormed out of the place with such haste and disgust that he was killed by a car as he ran across the street. The driver didn’t laugh either. And then of course, the funeral. Thousands showed up, all touched deeply by Mark’s charisma and his abrupt end. The whole place was overtaken by laughter as people shared stories about Mark’s hilarious life. Wild fits of spontaneously evolving laughter. Only the few people who were there that fateful night when Mark’s story fell flat were confused. Maybe they SHOULD have laughed. Maybe they were just ASSHOLES. Or maybe Mark was an asshole for taking his role as an entertainer so GODDAMN SERIOUSLY.
The funeral was dull and nobody cried. On the way home I saw children playing in a school yard and I was overcome by jealousy. I sat on a swing and kicked aimlessly at the gravel beneath my feet. It started to rain. There is no real measurement for the amount of pain a person experiences in a lifetime. This suddenly seems like a great tragedy. I get off the swing, kick a piece of newspaper blowing in the wind and light a cigarette while trying to ignore the pressure building in my head. I walk past a homeless man. There is no eye contact. Perhaps it is better this way. I walk over to the bus stop and wait. The bus arrives and I get on. There is a man with bad burn scarring on one side of his face and head. He is listening to a walkman. We make eye contact for a second as I take my seat. The bus smells like stale piss. I get off at my stop and wander home as people buzz around trying to feel fulfilled about something or other. I arrive at my house and open the door. I walk up the stairs and enter my bedroom. I close the blinds and bury myself under the covers. Some days the world imagines itself. Other days you have to imagine it.
posted by Kevin C. Pearce | 10:56 PM
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