User talk:Charlie Ozburn

Charlie Ozburn
Charles Brandon Ozburn, born June 28,1981, is an American artist (novelist, musician, singer/songwriter, and painter) and political/policy guru. He is the guitarist, vocalist, principal songwriter and primary composer of C Change (ChelseaChanges.com). Mr. Ozburn was also a guitarist and composer of OverflO and Calico Stars.

Creeks & Estuaries
Without question, the least complicated, dare I say obvious answer to any question then not known was to simply say, 'I don't know', and all was not lost. That, to borrow a phrase, was then. Now, there is no reason one should not know all there is to know, or leastwise, by no uncertain terms the means for which to come by, or leastways, come to at least some sort of marginal end for any pursuit set out uncertain. To that end, to say today, 'I don't know' is just as well to say, 'I'm more lazy, well, than anything'. Yet, suppose the who for whom I speak is more soon called the opposite than he is lazy at all, which is not enough to say is not of the lazy sort, but more so has pressed with such perverse deliberation to the furthest end from lazy that better he be said to take courage in his aim not to know. This is not to say there does not exist, in this day and age, the sort who care not enough for the unknown to ascertain answers to questions to them not known–much too many, I'd say–but rather that this sort, especially in this day and age, is more apt than not to embody all wherefores and whys why the word 'lazy' persists to exist today–

–eh, C'est la guerre!, so they say.

I say, Ceci n'est pas une pipe – nor the so and so I speak.

He, who I speak paints a more peculiar pipe and is not framed the sort who by his own idle design has not taken to know where the answers now lay–The Estuaries, for Christ's sake!–nor of the apathetic sort, who, ably learned on the waters within which to turn inquest–The Estuaries, for Christ's sake!–opts not to plunge headlong the thalweg out of mere reluctance to work. Rather, I speak of a more diligent sort, who with earnestness endeavors against the progressions that be to stay the stream and cast back the spring waters of his self — this to either fix his tick, or thus leave it done to a life not lived.

Like calling to mind the creek that lay behind my boyhood home, which, ascended below a sloping forest, by night cut flat the vertical red taped timbers standing tall under a romantic moon, streaking a pink moss moonglade across the black underbrush to illuminate the medial strike line of Father’s ‘coon’ hunting grounds–grounds I further clarify to call more or less the small wooded patch of undeveloped sprawl stretched to and fro a baseball throw of ours and our backdoor neighbor’s doors–for which, I, on the occasional night he was around and found need to wake me to follow along his pursuit, would be roused from repose, conferred a firearm and thus be behooved to part ways with dreams of the morrow’s morn to wander unwillingly about playing second fiddle his meddling hunt; though by day, a creek to which led the pestilent unknown, perhaps the darkest tangles of the Amazon, I opined, or headlong across the Vedic hinterlands snaked far south the slithers of the Danube. This I believed not for its width, narrow enough at parts to hop one skip across, nor for its length–of which I cannot say the ends I reached to know in scope, but in linearity cannot now conceive to stretch infinitely, as then believed–but which, I say I believed unashamedly so in that I, at least insofar as then, was far from of capacity to comprehend such concepts in construction as width and length – and same for which can be said today of the unable adult who out and out fails to comprehend his own context, much