My fingers gallop over the keys. I lift my head and see before me many thousands of others lockstep in stampede, typing full clip; flanked to the horizons, behind us more millions, we hurtle as one toward a destination far beyond our insufficient imaginations, steered by the blind wisdom of the whole of us toward conclusions too small to be seen but enough to set right the entire course of the earth. We are the words of every written language, the secret sharers of the self who post, who ping, who penetrate all borders. We fish the same river from our own piers and linking peer to peer we form our own neighborhoods where we exist equal as threads in a fabric. By ourselves we're lone apostrophes in possession of nothing, but when we blog we blog in passionate disarray, as driven as sperm, unconquorable as an army of ants; dumb as the buffalo that know not where they head but head there with purpose.
It takes one buffalo to roam, hundreds to stampede, and thousands to be seen from space, but if a single buffalo makes a decision to stand in the middle of the road when you're coming around a mountain in Utah in a tinlike toy vehicle that's overloaded with three guys and much of the stuff of the one guy who's getting married, and the brakes are bad, and the groom's driving and he's literally standing on the brake, and then the pads go, he's grinding metal to a slippery gloss, somebody yells pump! he pumps hard he pumps harder. It does not look good, the road ahead, headed for a head-on with the broadside of a bull buffalo. But the vehicle does shudder to a dead stop inches away from the knees of this looming behemoth whose massive crown of horns stands stern as wiser eyebrows, set and ready to destroy us, to simply skewer this tiny truck and send us careening down the brief remainder of this utahpian mountain. Who to blame? We had plenty of time to consider screaming buffaloward in slow-mo: there was the groom, the buffalo, God, weddings, women, ourselves for going along with the whole thing. Alcohol. Parents. Society. But mostly there was the buffalo to blame: that stupid, stupid buffalo. We could not blame the alcohol: that demon defeated us the night before. So it came down to God, whom we damned, begged, and finally, flattered, which must have worked because we're here. And when we came to that dead stop under the smelly black shadow of this sarcastic mofo, the buffalo transmitted his complete message, which, translated in full, was: Make me. Point well taken. Mr. Buff blinked once and walked on, blinding us by the light.
Sorry for all that writing. You know. Second paragraph. In my last post, I set out to wreck blogging for everyone but failed. This time I'm blogging as if my dad's not reading. I love blogging. But I long to become the buffalo.