And, for once, I don’t see the time
as a bad thing. Who gives two goddamns
if tomorrow is oblivious, I say today
was a good goddamn day. Joyousness
in all the depths of despair and dismay
of the human condition portrayed, as a soap
opera goes. It’s a week’s worth of stays in
the hotel setting that I’ve never seen.
open while we smoke and state,
our intentions blatantly to guests
who hate waiting. Because I am first
goddammit! At the reception desk
and the Grammys and the restroom
and the planet! I am a fucking astronaut
so back off or I’ll pull the airlock, you
selfish fucks, look at the world, see
it from here, through your own eyes,
then choke, and fucking die.
What am I writing about? My frustration in answering. When stated face to face everyone seems disappointed, life, I say.
The world, I say. I’m writing about answering that fucking question for Christ’s sake. Because I can’t say love without some stereotyped view being emitted.
My love is understood, at a slow pace and is silent. Hallmark cards and wedding bells and vacations and late night telephone calls are not love. Love is old. Those things
are more recent than most would believe. I’m writing about perspective, trying to keep an honest one. I could churn out a short story about a stilted lover getting
a text message right now, like snap. But that concedes to two views I very much disagree with, so fuck it. I’m starting to get angry, so I might as well do it, because if not this’ll turn into more ranting bullshit.
It's easy to spot the tourists round here, he says, loose hand on the wheel, cigarette hanging out the freezing opened window. They do things like that, pointing from his drag to the car pulling straight through the intersection from the adequately marked turning lane. Just because you don’t know where you are, doesn’t mean you have a choice about following the rules.
Art, the unintentional contact of inspiration, the greasy labor of production, the feverish virility of art, the unintentional contradiction of inspiration, the grassy labor of prediction, the fiendish viscosity of art, the unconditional accident of interpretation, the glossy fable of direction, the ghoulish reality of perception, the
What’s that they say about good things? Can’t have too much of em? Or is that good friends? Or good times, maybe? What if things are great? Would the same standard apply? If that’s the case, what about bad things? Or shitty things? Or not worth mentioning, mundane things? Wouldn’t it have to go both ways?
This clean peace actions got me standing sideways on the smooth flow of majestic costal beaches, a horizon, stretching a thousand miles wide, shoulder to shoulder, from side to side as far as the eye can see, a very tranquil scene
That’s somethin like a rectangle, man. Whatchu gettin at? Come on, man, get to the point already.
Alright. Fine. After all, this is what you came here for, isn’t it? What you paid to see. We’ll alright. Here ya go. Just for you. Lordy.
I’ve become obsessed with this idea of perception. I’ll leave the case open for it being the major culprit in this poetically deficient stint that’s now dragging on,
the one man, one measure idea of Heraclitus, from multiple thousands of years ago, occupies me so fully, in attempting to determine any honest sense of reality. The visceral reactions,
sensations of mind, through the extremities, at sights, at sounds, at language, surely there must be biological similarities between each human being, still we debate what’s
normal to no end, and don’t we come to find, through such open negotiations of the term, that things we fear most often, in hopes that no one finds out about, are the same? Is abnormalcy the
only thing we can be sure of? Yet, what’s abnormal to me could be perfectly ordinary to the next guy. Could this not be the democratic standard? Or does that assume too much commonality? Enticed into believing that
true freedom is the choice between this or that? Unfathomable to me that one man’s views could lie beyond either platform in a two party system. You’re with us or against us. It’s going to
rain tomorrow, or it’s not. I’ll sell the movie rights to a story and get rich, or I won’t. Decision making is that simple. We know that’s not realistic. That’s just how we do our business, but that’s not how it’s done
everywhere. It barely works here anymore. So to understand what existence really feels like to those in underprivileged nations relies on experiences most of us here will never have, still we
argue over actions whose devastating consequences don’t actually affect us, but what it comes down to is, we all want to be happy, right? Or am I assuming too much there? Or is what I’m assuming simply
linguistic? My definition of happy may differ from yours. Lots of cars, a lavish home, fancy clothes don’t play into my happiness. Good friends and long nights are what it takes for real living, but that’s just my perspective.
Identity cofounds! Are we really different people in different situations or are we dimensionally complex creatures? No humans have ever had to deal with the tribulations of our day! Who you were at the market would not compete with yourself in the factory because they would never have met. Duality, tripality, quadrality,
quintality, sexality, sebsality, hexality. The global community was not always watching from their pant’s pockets. Triviality discourages attempts of self fulfilled existence. At any time, we’re all on trial for our views of the world. Competition is intrinsic to existence of the most basic order yet we speak of elevated consciousness, which in fact, only lowers ourselves to the perception of those around us. Ants, of course, are insignificant,
nuisances in our busy, productive lives. You think they’re walking around wondering what the others think? Or are they focused on their production? We watch sports teams because we’re not team players. It’s ok.
As my lapcat rests all her weight on my supportive yet tiring arm, I find such pleasure from watching her lounge, her teetering enjoyment of my behind the ear scratching, her halfway eyes and popping purrs., the fullness of her comfort, in my handling her, something like a child, I imagine, a child that won’t grow into some jaded asshole, or yuppie swine, and I smile and make noises at her while I pet her, limbs limp, chin out, so content and adorable before she bears down, trapping my arm, and sinking her teeth into the flesh of my hand.
Across the linoleum covered table, moving the moisture from the glass with the tip of her, often, gentle finger, resting her cheek on the folded wrist of a table elbowed arm, watching the droplets shift, she asked, “You still gunna get the special?” Relaxing her shoulders and making eye contact with him, the man she came in with.
He sat with posture, hands folded in the lap of his short pants, noticing how locked her eyes were on his, “Sure,” he said, with rhetorical intentions. Tapping the passing barmaid, he told her to add a beer to their tab. “Draft. Biggest, cheapest you’ve got.”
Just outside the window front, a small child, hand handled by a presumable responsible adult, skipped a step and planted its knee square into the corner of the only concrete stair to the establishment, paused at its conflicted instant, pain pervading its neural network, face reddening, the parent picked up the child, half sorry, half smiling, and continued on their way.
“Let’s get some beers to go,” She told him, breaking her visual bond at his involuntary response. Her exhale of vented laughter, accompanied by the around the place, returning glance, the pause of confidence, smirking, raised eye brow, her slightly parted lips emitting the beckoning question again with only a playfully inquisitive, soulfully serious sound, moving over the musical scale, low, hesitating, quickly rising, and holding a half measure longer than any that had been asked of him in his recent memory. He agreed.
The vibrant day outside faded into their little dive bar booth, the greasy food, so decadent in its deliciousness, so stumbled upon by the out front sign, so much right then. Unaware of anything past or future, eating fries. Drinking beer. Noticing anything only for the reaction of another. Perhaps the universe, he thought, is only slightly bigger than our brain’s space. Just enough that we can’t grasp its entirety. The ocean no longer concerns itself with the land. The sea knows who has lost.