(note: for best results, use a voice and cadence similar to Vincent Price)
Let me tell you about Disperser . . . some say his soul is dark as coal, but they are wrong, for he has no soul. Others fear his piercing gaze, describing his eyes as sharp and unforgiving as a pair of Kris daggers, but they too are in error, for it’s more like a pair of bladeless knives with no hilts.
The only emotion he’s known to have is anger . . . anger at the universe; a universe which conspired to make him too smart, too handsome, too gosh-dang talented, and then concealed it all behind an unassuming facade designed to keep all them things hidden from prying eyes and interested parties.
Old, is he . . . so old that memory of his coming into being is lost to all but a handful of people; people living in fear of his sense of humor, glib retorts, puns, and rational views.
What little can be pieced together about this mysterious ‘Disperser’, if that is indeed his name, falls thus upon this burdened page …
He likes photography. He likes writing. He also thinks neither of those “likes” translate into anything close to a marketable Talent. Were marketable Talent a fine piece of furniture made from Koa wood, you would find Disperser’s Talent not quite at the Particle Board level . . . more toward the Imitation Cardboard stage.
Still, Disperser is no less happy to work within his limitations, and by all evidence, primarily for his own enjoyment.
People can see for themselves by visiting Disperser.WordPress.Com . . . but a warning cry must be raised . . .
. . . do so at your own risk. Rumor has it, among halls filled with photographs and stories, there are dark places; places where few dare to venture, where Disperser opinions and musings roam unchecked. Adults have been known to just stare at them agape, debating if they should cry, laugh, or just kill themselves.
Children are strongly discouraged from reading them raw nuggets, them sanguine chunks of Disperser’s mind, lest they grow up to be decent, honest, and caring human beings who will, nonetheless, be reviled by the rest of humanity.
And what does he write? What does Disperser pull from that twisted mind of his to stain the figurative pages of this electronic parchment? He writes about love and hate, action and contemplation, science and fantasy, dreams and reality . . . spanning the unbounded breadth and width of his limited imagination, eschewing the rules and structure of both spoken and written language, he roams in desolate fields of prose, dotted with trite ideas, simple plots, even simpler characters, and a few daisies. He likes daisies.
A few may wonder why they are to endure the description of this . . . this . . . Disperser!
It’s the social convention, don’t you know. People want to know more about this shadowy figure lurking in the periphery of the human experience. Not you people, of course, but other people; people who are not overly particular about what they read. Or so I am told.