2003-10-11
10:00 p.m.

Broadmuda Triangle: Babs

Bro-ad {muda} tri * angle � a triangular area between your eyes, your remote control and your heart and a point near Raleigh, NC and Los Angeles, CA, in which numerous broads are said to have mysteriously disappeared but then reappeared more playful and lecherous afterwards.

Here is my dramatic story of how I got caught in triangle known as Clay�s love triangle. It�s about me. It�s about him. And, it�s about how real-life will never be the same again. Here is my own broadmuda story.

The mere sight of him

Never�shall I�seek�to�experience�again,�what�I experienced�that fateful night when I first saw him. The mere sight of him and the sound of his wailing ran a cold bony finger up my spine. It made me shiver in excitement at the first sound, first discovery. There he�lay becalmed,�a striped shirt wonder of a southerner, carrot-topped,�sleek and�tall. Nothing was�out of place�in his rigging; his masts�were�tall�in canvas, every line taught and fitting. His voice clear and strong, stirring the harbor of my soul.

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Why do you build me up Buttercup baby?

He was�a point�off my TV screen, to the left of my remote control,�dazzled in the�reflections�of�my TV set tuned to Foxes, American Idol. I�opened my mouth slightly with awe as he appeared from the side of the stage swinging his hips to the music in his marvelously tight and limber stripedshirtedness. He was�a miraculous vision, making the�sweetest of sounds from his planks�wedging his song like nails in my ears, waking me to the joys of my undiscovered womanhood. �Why do you build me up Buttercup baby, just to let me down,� was like the sound of butter as it meets toast. I sank in my chair waiting for more from his trembling lips in song.

At�an instant, when first upon�his deck of judges, I could see at once: There was no answer, there was no clue. As to what the judges could say to the brilliance of one who sang Buttercup with so pure a tone. So fine was he. So strong a stance. So commanding a presence that my vessel quelled and quaked in delight.

He entered my Solitude with Solitaire

Then later he appeared in black, dramatically lit from behind, so you could see the curve of his neck and his ample ears covered by masses of red tousled hair. The sound of his wailing to Solitaire had me confounded and I swung back and forth on the couch, creaking and groaning and looking from side to side. The greatest mystery�now faced me from all around. �Solitaire is the only game in town and every road that takes him takes him down�.

Time�had seemed to stop,�stop�at a moment, at an instance, freezing all things, recording this marvelous moment. The hours, the�minutes, seemed of little importance. They ticked away to the�rhythm of my stilled heart touched by the eerie loneliness of the song. Had he himself known of the loneliness and the heartbreak that he sang? Had, he like myself been waiting for the one ship in the night to rescue my heart from utter worldly boredom that is known as real life. Did this young man at the height of his craft possess the power to move a thousand ships to forget that they had never heard such a song before?

Like a�pendulum, the wheel tipped to one side, then t� other. Gently, Gently, it kept its pace, like the ticking hand of a clock; yet time seemed to move in no direction; it simply took up space. I sat there struck with a thousand emotions but I could not speak one coherent word. I was touched by the song of solitude sung by an earthen angel housed in a vessel of such beauty. I knew solitude and I knew it well. I loved my own special solitude. Yet this man, Clay Aiken disturbed my solitude. He called to me and I had to abandon all my thoughts of what a deliverer of song should look like and be like. It should be him and it was only he that night and all other nights from that voyage on.

The fateful number dialed in distress

The�sails slatted�in�a sudden gust of merry chide. Oh, foolish mortal what have you come to find . . . what I have sought to hide? Come mortal, I heard Neil Sedaka say what I longed to hear. Explain to me if you dare, whence will you cut the first Clay Aiken album. Tears in his eyes touched by Solitaire, the crowd there signaled their grateful approval.

Then a joyous sensation�gripped me, growing greater as I searched for my mobile phone, text messaging the notice on the screen. 1-800-idols and punched in his fateful number.

The loud sound�of�my calls returned to me void, upsetting me all the more for its boisterous and rude contrast, for upsetting the gaunt and melancholy silence the lazily connecting cell phone seemed to discover. Did my call go through so that my new discovery would be seen as the champion and the captain of the ship? Or would he be remembered as the one who came and sang and then disappeared.

Rewind

I will�never forget that heavy silence, parting before me like a swirling mist. It carried�with it a hundred daggers, a thousand piercing and angry eyes, as though to disturb it meant to threaten a secret it guarded, a plaything it shielded. So then I hit the rewind button and slowly watched the magnificence again. Solitaire and Buttercup in succession so profound was their sound, so mystifying.

What had walked within these walls, I felt still stalked between her decks. Would I hear THE VOICE again? The voice that sailed on the perfect sea with the soundness of a ship still yet on her maiden voyage. Where indeed? Where can Truth be known, I�feared�nothing aboard but that which I had brought. I feared not�phantoms, spooks,�and shadows. I feared what I�could not know, what I could only suppose. I dreaded�what I could not explain.

Wonder, ponder,�and curiosity fill me now. But never, never, no never again shall I seek to feel the greatest fear of all� not fearing what I cannot know . . . but fearing what might possibly be.

Broads continue to be found derelict along the waterways of the Clay Aiken Broadmuda Triangle or Limbo of the Lost or whatever alternative triangle or shape the reader may wish to accord the �Triangle.� In most instances there is only one aboard, in some cases two, that went a listening to a man named Clay. Some survivors of the Clay leave a sign that they are lost, like a sink full of dishes or no lunch boxes for their children but all cannot forget the moment he touched their vessel and caused them to live and love again. And then go to the only message board that celebrates the lecherous journey know simply as LBFCA.com.

Babs

P.S. You too may board the ship as you sail into the waters of Clay. Send your timely broadmuda tale to Marie.

Posted By Robin