Broadcast: (n) a radio or television program or transmission.
You can contradict me with Webster’s realities, but I will explain to you that the intimacy of my experience allows me to screw around with the vernacular.
Such is the case with two words: illusion and delusion.
An illusion, to me, is something I am pursuing which I do very well, and I am waiting for the rest of the world to acknowledge my excellence.
A delusion is something that deep in my heart I know I’m not very accomplished at doing, but I am hoping I will luck out and make a lot of money from it anyway.
When I moved to Nashville, Tennessee, in 1992 so that my children, who were now aging out of their teen years, could settle in and find lives of their own, I maintained one little piece of my vagabond creative persona by initiating a radio broadcast which aired five minutes a day on a local station which had its headquarters in a building about the size of six outhouses.
I was under the illusion that my talent was strong enough and my ideas so clever that they would draw listeners to this little forsaken location on the AM radio dial, and make myself well-known as an innovator.
Matter of fact, I did well over a thousand episodes on this particular outlet before sitting down one day and coughing up a hairball of delusion.
I admitted to myself that I was being clever in a vacuum.
Nobody was listening–and if they were, their appreciation was quite silent.
It was then that I had to define the word “broadcast.”
Broad in the sense of covering much territory.
Cast, referring to being thrown out there.
In the purest sense, my effort was certainly “broad” and “cast.”
But literally, it was more small and spilled.