Saturday, November 17, 2012

The Sight of Blankness

Here's a little folksy tune from my garage band, Mommy's Got a Headache. I'm sure Simon and Garfunkel won't begrudge me my Weird Al-anism of their original.

The Sight of Blankness

Hello blank screen my old friend
I've come to type on you again
Because no vision softly creeping
Left its seeds while I was sleeping
And the vision never planted in my brain
Gives me pain
Upon the sight of blankness

In restless dreams I wrote alone
Sometimes on slate and sometimes stone
'Neath the gooseneck of a desk lamp
I clenched my fingers from a writer's cramp
When my mind was seized by the thought of my hopeless plight
Failure to write
Behold the sight of blankness

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand words, hopefully more
Words I'd written without thinking
Words I'd typed with eyes not blinking
Words telling stories that eyes had never shared
No one cared
Just like the sight of blankness

"Fools," said I, "you do not know"
Blankness like a fat goat grows
Read my words that I might teach you
Touch my arms that I might reach you"
But my words like unseen lizards lay
And basked upon the sight of blankness

And the people bowed and prayed
To the blogging god they'd made
And the page flashed out its warning
In the message it was forming
And the page said, "The words of the stupid are written on the Blogger site
In the dead of night
Deleted to the sight of blankness"


Sioux said...

As a rabid Simon and Garfunkel fan, I salute you. These lyrics sound like you're going to be appearing, acoustic guitar in hand, at writing conferences as the lunchtime "entertainment."

Hillbilly Mom--what else do you have up your sleeves?

Kathy's Klothesline said...

Very good!! I have been known to steal a tune myself. My family amuses themselves at gatherings, repeating my little diddies and making fun of my talent.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I'm still cultivating the hairstyle that I will need for my first appearance.

Up my sleeve, I have an achy wrist from excess mouse-handling, a smattering of freckles, fine white hairs, a yellowing hematoma from my blood draw last week, and flabby old-lady arms that require me to give the royal queen wave when I ride in parades, lest a normal wave knock me unconscious with waggling flesh.

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, you know. So your family is flattering you, in a classic case of mocking gone awry.