Ricardo MadGello Speaks

I Am The Master Of My Multiverse
Channeled by Ricardo MadGello
Humorist par Excellence

I am writing myself.   Forces I know nothing of and do not understand compel
me to compose this written work for you here now.
I am the book held before you at this moment.
Words in some strange foreign language appear on the pages as your fingers
or eyes scan them in effort to extract the contents of each page.
They appear then fade away and meld into the next set of alphabetic
characters that show themselves as time does its thing with matter and
The hands behind the keys of this typewriter have less than zero chance of
catching them as they float into existence and present themselves here for
the brief moment attention is focused on their presence.
The word reverberates through the air in the hallway threaded between the
dressing room and the entrance to the stage.
The conductor is off in another world working on some unrelated piece of
music for some performance yet to be heard by any audience or himself for
that matter.
"Maestro, you forgot your baton.  The orchestra members won't know what to
do or when to do it without your loving guidance of its motion in your
skilled hands."
The conductor takes the baton in uncertain and benign forgiveness of his own
forgetfulness and proceeds to the podium that is set at the edge of the
stage between the audience and orchestra members.
"Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen."
"The concert you, the orchestra, and I are about to enjoy has yet to be
composed and/or imagined."
"It is composing itself as we proceed to enjoy the sounds, phrases and
melodies it brings to our ears."  "We hope and pray, that is."
'TicTicTic', the conductor's baton communicates to the podium which alerts
each instrument's player to the approaching first measure.
Now I am the music teasing your eardrums.
The kettle drum booms once and slowly moves up the scale as the peddle is
depressed then lowers in pitch as the foot pulls back a notch, then two,
then three.
Bass clarinet sounds in slow and silky not wishing to disturb the throb that
is just now beginning to return its echo from the back of the opera house.
Ghosts of ancient and modern composers awaken, rub their sleepy eyes, then
stand and glare in jealous awe and anticipation for both the last cycles of
the previous intrusion on the former stillness that had not long before
filled the hall, infrequently interrupted only by the occasional
semi-squelched cough and rustling of tonight's blank program.
"This is the symphony that writes itself before our long dead ears, as we
pause to listen." they whisper to each other in unison as the bass
clarinet's first sound attempts to introduce the theme of this particular
Chapter one
Before I was printed on this paper I was a set of ideas and potentialities
floating around in a space that has no texture, feeling, or measure.  It was
the most difficult job I have ever been presented with to bring myself to
you.  The path seems clear at the moment.  And yet, I continue to have great
difficulty translating myself into words that make themselves clear or
understandable in terms this language I'm written in now can convey.
Language escapes me.  Meaning evades.  And I don't understand how or why.
The process seems so simple; to be born, live a life, die, fade away and
hopefully be reborn in a form that is, was, or will be easier to understand.
Is it that I don't see the clear path to release in this life as I am
knowing myself to be in the present, past, and future, all three
I confuse myself with logic.  And sense of meaning and tense of time.  And
I become real before your and my very eyes...
Right here.
Right now.
Leftover and discarded melodies, compositions unfinished and undone flap in
the silken breeze here.  Unfinished for lack of time and attention.  Undone
by the thought processes of the composer before me.  His mind gets in the
way.  It interrupts my birth.  Is this what many call 'writer's block'?  Or
is it the method I choose, this time, to introduce myself?
I need to relax, yet I need a cup of coffee.
Is that me saying that or is it the <bleep>ing set of fingertips at the end
of the pair of arms attached to the body of the being I choose to birth
myself through?
I get smarter each time.  This time I made him, my composer, the fingers
typing at the keyboard, go for a walk the other day.  He thought the cars
that appeared to be attempting to run him over or simply bump into him were
mild reflections on his states of mind.  Through experience he begins to
understand.  Writing me is easier than him taking a crap while his bowels
are loose enough to let the Titanic drop out through the sphincter that is
merely a metaphor for the clamps on his mind, real and/or imagined, or so he
thinks.  Yet, it appears more obstacles present themselves on the path to my
arrival.  On his journey, sights, sounds, aromas (stenches, mostly, these
days) reveal themselves before his weary senses as his trembling legs carry
him through the streets of today.
Yet, I digress.
I begin to fear birth.  Birth of myself.  Mice Elves, more re-wording, yes?
And who really gives a flying rat's patootie about what roadblocks appear
between my becoming and your being able to enjoy, abhor, be disgusted by,
amuse, or enthuse you.  You, dear reader, are the only thing that is holding
me up right now.  Separating me from the dingy mess on the floor I see below
you and the sky above.  A mess that would be a treasure if not for the
history of each item that claims its space down there.  Down there below
you.  Causing pause in your step in your efforts to remain upright and not
tripping over everything while you pace between here and there.  It is good
you remain sitting yet still moving around.  From place to place.  No direction
known or desired.  As Unity Of Being enters the room.
Chapter two
Unity and I have been friends for quite some time.  As One, we've learned to adapt. We used to have arguments about which of us were interrupting who and/or whom, in the midst of a world ever interfoldering release of ideas. Interchangeable belief systems. Internal Systems ON ALERT. In our efforts to realize ourselves in here, in the place where we come from, and exist until born. 
Unity says something.  I attempt to relate.  We talk to each
other, but it's always too late.  I hear what Unity says.  And Unity hears me.  We talk with each other.  By the time Unity's words reach my ears.  I believe I've already understood.  Yet the words, "Don't interrupt me, I'm not finished.", sting my ears and mind and spirit.  I shut up.  I listen.
Words come at me.  The ideas behind them have faded.  The connection is
lost.  We say, "Let's do lunch one day." and go our separate ways.
Before we'd met each other, Unity and I that is, we'd each found something,
something special, something to share.  Something to talk about in our
mutual and separate efforts to fill the air.
It's lonely in silence.  Quite deafening at times, as ears go into overload
with nothing to hear.  Ears stretch themselves thin at times.  Cupping for
sounds and funneling those that arrive onward toward nerves in hopes of
arriving on time with that note from before is such strenuous work.  The
audience is still.  A pause. A tinkle of glass shattering, white-hot steel
wire fresh from the mill rips from one end of tha hall to the other while
attempting to connect one thought to the next.  Nothing makes sense in this
place where I wait until birth of my being brings me full force to the
forefront of my life as I know it now before it really has a chance to
I'm so tired of this waiting room where we, the works of so-called
composers, must piddle around, twiddling our thumbs and playing Mah Jongg to
kill the time before it kills us, or our neighbors, or dear friends.
We'd love to just be able to stand up and account for our newness, our right
to survive, our need to exist, our desire to share, Music.
Ideas from over here.  Ideas that don't exist and never can here.  As there
is no room in a place without space... or time to separate us from each
We continue in our mission though.
It is our only duty, our only job, our only reason... to exist in the first
place or second or third.
But, we can never understand those concepts, no matter how hard you, dear
reader, try to cram them down our throats.
Constantly misinterpreting our every move, our every stillness, our absence
and presence both at the same time.
"It's a matter of duality", your flags have stitched across themselves.
We say "huh?", "wha?",  "eh?", and so forth, a lot to each other and
ourselves these days, even though each day is the same one without
Or, when we're really bored or we've lost a tile or two from this game that
has no beginning or end, we'll yell out, "What in the hell is this?".
Birth has a tendency to do that, we're told in the waiting room, here where
we sit, reclining, or lying to each other, with nothing better to do until.
. .
"Hey fingers!!!!  Get back to work!  We're counting on you!"
"Somebody get the forceps!  This one is coming out sideways or not at all."
We cringe in fear of dying before we're even born.
Yet we're all the same being.
Nothing separates us from each other here.
It's your job to do that, to make us have meaning apart from each other.
And keep us together in the same space that you create for us as you give us
life and breath.

I almost forgot.
It's a good thing we're not swimming or we'd drown.
For lack of breath.
Without any air.
We die in transition.
From here to there.
Chapter Three
Queen La Teefah Kitteh, SUPREME CAT, she art.
A Modigliani
A Picasso
A Man Ray
SHE Rules my insignificant Beingness
Here Now
SHE decides to pee on my ill-gottenly gained clothes strewn across this abysmal Nothingness calling me up each day I wake up and confirm, "Yes, IT is Still There, My Mess."
Glimmering Shimmery Fairies
Glitter and Dance About
A Tremedously Horrendous, "GUFFAW!"
I had always heard this Sentience from Beyond
as, "GOOF OFF!"
up until this moment
my wrists gain a certain un-knotted sense
a time appears on The Clock
Decades and Days
gone by
"Signifying nothing," as someone FAMOUS
once evoked on this page
the same
the film
which Always Assumes
at the End Of THE Show
Allow us to begin
a freshness
no Madison Avenue
Advertising Team
can ever cast assunder
I love that word
Chapter Four . . .