essence and fluff

essence and fluff.
sometimes it takes time to make any discernable difference between the two.
but i have noticed that where there is considerable essence there is hardly any fluff.
what is fluff?
fluff is bright, cheerful and oh so pleasant!
fluff is the thick layer of cottony candy floss that chatters incessantly. fluff is all the artifice and false cheer pumped with three bushels of air. fluff is all conversations that we pretend to listen to. fluff is all the smart two bits that we casually let drop, so we are believed to have any essence or intelligence or both.
fluff is all the lovely looking drawing rooms with matching throws and drapes while the john in the bedroom is leaky and stained.
do you indulge in fluff?
i do. sometimes. but i like to believe i don’t.
is essence then the diametric opposite of fluff?
what does essence look like? what does it feel like?
for me it sounds like silence. it sounds like listening. it feels solid, and deep brown, like the earth i walk on… or the bark of that tree that i let my hand brush against. essence is knobbly and knotty and it has deep recesses that are not for public consumption.

i don’t know if essence is popular. i don’t know if you will take essence to a party.
fluff makes so much more an easier companion. but would you want to come back home to it? i really don’t think so.

i went to a calligraphy workshop today.
and the calligraphy maestro (which he is undoubtedly) sat back while his monkey troupe of sycophants hustled around. they showed two long presentations, the presentations were all about the man, his work and all the celebrities he had worked with.
there was an entire section on ‘celebrity credentials’, with slow dissolves, pictures of the maestro rubbing shoulders with bigwigs…
i stole a look at this man (infact, several), while everyone watched the presentations. he is a diminutive man; he was beating his fingers to the music in the presentation.
i have always wondered how one really feels when someone praises you to high heaven and falls short of kissing your feet. do they believe that they are really that good or is there a nagging little voice inside which says, “is this guy gassed? what does he really want? does he know what a @#$% i really am?”

the maestro then began to wield his brushes. and the truth is the man does not need any of this shit. he is really that good. he can but a toothbrush to toilet paper and make that look beautiful. with every line his brush marked, his stooges went, “ahhhh…” and the cameras went clicking non-stop.
what happens to essence when it is steeped in fluff?
is one better than the other?
do they need each other to exist?
i don’t know… all i am saying is that the earth beneath my toes feels good and the champa smells beautiful.