shanty town
2012-04-15
On a muddy shore, we're able to purchase empty land in increments the size of twin beds, called "sixths". We cut our credit cards up into these exact proportions and lay them in the mud to declare our intentions. I purchase a sixth, next to Jocelyn, while Greg purchases two sixths. I try to extend my bed outside my porch for walking space. Blink to years later; we learn than any intended construction was abandoned long ago. Cold concrete walls with no windows, we'll just be left with mud to be swallowed by the sea.
It's just my gal and I - we take up singing showtunes from our own careers as understudies at outdoor bars in hopes of raising enough tips to eat. There is a moment of recognition and tearful nostalgia in these depressed times, but our voices are gravel and all charm is gone.
2012-03-15
Closed stone books hang by thread from the ceiling in an otherwise empty room. We're setting up candles in strategic places. As every second ticks by, the stone books slowly open and reveal dried, dead bats that grow in size and vitality. We have to time it right to burn all of them in one big inferno before they all come alive and fly into our faces.
2012-03-03
The sample sale is a multi-room tented maze where we're time-released and bent on survival; one can wander alone between fusty attics of relics and not notice that no other souls are nearby for hours. Turns out Joan Crawford has strategically built the maze so that if you enter certain areas, you are stuck in a cycle of songs and forced experiences that you're doomed to repeat once you exit and re-enter. I'm facing competition from people I have seen in the media, but quickly get lost.
From above, it is like terraced diamonds, like a web by a bizarre spider. In one corner, I realize I'm in trapped in the cycle as I start to collect glass doll eye pins on a blank mannequin head. I'm engrossed in our host's trance, and my waking self in bed remembers the songs and tries to recreate the exact path I took each time after each exit of the maze. I don't know the reason behind the trap until I realize it's not a sinister ploy to drag people into her dementia, but merely a desire to fulfill a very complex entertainment! And of course she transforms into my big boss at work.
On a muddy shore, we're able to purchase empty land in increments the size of twin beds, called "sixths". We cut our credit cards up into these exact proportions and lay them in the mud to declare our intentions. I purchase a sixth, next to Jocelyn, while Greg purchases two sixths. I try to extend my bed outside my porch for walking space. Blink to years later; we learn than any intended construction was abandoned long ago. Cold concrete walls with no windows, we'll just be left with mud to be swallowed by the sea.
It's just my gal and I - we take up singing showtunes from our own careers as understudies at outdoor bars in hopes of raising enough tips to eat. There is a moment of recognition and tearful nostalgia in these depressed times, but our voices are gravel and all charm is gone.
2012-03-15
Closed stone books hang by thread from the ceiling in an otherwise empty room. We're setting up candles in strategic places. As every second ticks by, the stone books slowly open and reveal dried, dead bats that grow in size and vitality. We have to time it right to burn all of them in one big inferno before they all come alive and fly into our faces.
2012-03-03
The sample sale is a multi-room tented maze where we're time-released and bent on survival; one can wander alone between fusty attics of relics and not notice that no other souls are nearby for hours. Turns out Joan Crawford has strategically built the maze so that if you enter certain areas, you are stuck in a cycle of songs and forced experiences that you're doomed to repeat once you exit and re-enter. I'm facing competition from people I have seen in the media, but quickly get lost.
From above, it is like terraced diamonds, like a web by a bizarre spider. In one corner, I realize I'm in trapped in the cycle as I start to collect glass doll eye pins on a blank mannequin head. I'm engrossed in our host's trance, and my waking self in bed remembers the songs and tries to recreate the exact path I took each time after each exit of the maze. I don't know the reason behind the trap until I realize it's not a sinister ploy to drag people into her dementia, but merely a desire to fulfill a very complex entertainment! And of course she transforms into my big boss at work.