art imitates life
I closed my eyes and this is what I got:
Louisiana summers, listening to Duran Duran and eating Lunchables, grated cheese and Dr. Pepper mixed with Hershey's syrup. Aluminum one hitters, 1-2-3 Jello, a bird with ants climbing into its brain, a thrashing puppy spattering blood under the tire of a pickup, bluescreens and chroma keys, DV codecs, and an abandoned triceratops. The attack chopper whisper of the hyperventilation accompanying a woman's orgasm, my father wobbling on a ladder trying to pull speaker wire, IR emitters, lightning over a little league game and the haunting view from the window of United Airlines flight 175. Phil Collins wades peacefully through the water in the shallow end of the pool at his European flat. We're flustered by errant flashlights and fireworks peppering the teenage surface of the moon, out of control brush fires, and the traumatic heaving that follows the first bit of burped up Robitussin. It's elecrity arcing across jumper cables, making love for the first time in a sleeping bag in a barn, probing a kitten for fleas and leaves scattered on a tattered battered trampoline. Apple IIe's and gases coalescing into stars giving way to the satisfying crack of a sow bug's exoskeloton mixed with the echoes of arguments over a character's motivation, his depression, satisfaction and events' correlation to the their real world basis; self-destructive writer types trying to lend some authenticity to their fiction by being inauthentic. I mentioned dripping solder and flux, bubble wrap, police badges and orgies of pink mice newborns under the glow of phosphors in Shinjuku. He doesn't mention me.
Then I'm older and I'm younger and a pointless vision of a 4 year old girl on a futuristic hoverbike pans across the park-view and distracts me from the patch of blood under curls on my brother's skull. It's porno hidden in a tree house, porno hidden on a zip disk, porno hidden on a VHS tape in the empty drive bay of an old computer. Then wine coolers and MDMA, my face imprinted into the sky and downing vials of AMT in the bathroom of a Wendy's in Shibuya (how post-modern). A marine is outside my room and he's beating his pregnant girlfriend, tomorrow there will be police tape and the MP's will hang around for months, watching my awkward foreplay among the flowers in a field while I dodge powerful blows in hopes of landing a few light jabs. We lick our arms and press down evenly on the temporary tattoos and I check my baggage, nervous about the pills I have carefully wrapped and shoved deep inside my cavity. Synthetic DMT, sharkleberry fin kool-aid, cicadas and cherry blossoms, the orange tip muzzles of reactionary America quickly moving to protect our children from the imminent danger posed by being able to buy a toy gun that didn't make you look like a total homo. The audio is muffled by the fumbling of the mic in the gravel and I think of a girl thinking of me and an imploding space station, the precious infatuation of eating takoyaki on an awkward blind date diffused with the precious guilt of stuffing a frog in between the hose and nozzle, screwing it on tightly and spraying until it all exploded. You've got three foot licorice ropes, and coke slurpee cups emptied to make way for crawfish so that you might later bury them alive in the sand. You've got nothing but the water-slide nirvana of today and the rest of you life.
Now it's over and it's past and future lovers, a write-combine that finds me halfway between here and their quantum entanglement. Dead cell material from my scalp cascades across my visual field and I imagine it's got to be something like the feeling of emerging from a subway station into the humid rain and scratching my name into the bridge at Shinsaibashi. Thank God for ultrawideband, ensuring a motherly efficacy for sniffing out the scent of infidelity and an insightful glimpse at the hulking spider shell that might just be me from the future. It was The Secret of the Ooze that I sought, my official Starfox flight jacket lending me the credibility to walk with confidence through the smoke of a laser tag den even though I was a relic of the past, suspicious of the strange magic these modern beings commanded. Just before I was blowing on the contacts of Nintendo cartridges, and just then I am analyzing deciduous trees flustered by the view of my maybe-corpse from the ocean, bored in a hardware store and waiting for the inevitable promise that love doesn't keep. "Oh, how cute," she says, and I complain to my associate that I am just not sure what the final image should be. Because between one moment and the next I struggle, trying to reconcile old-world assertions of satori through dry humping in a church parking lot with post-5/11 concerns over the capacity of my miniscule forces to fight a war in two theaters against multiple global and local assailants. "We need a decision, we start filming on Friday." So get your thoughts and emotions in check and decide just what it is you want to say about human dynamics and gender roles, that is if you've got anything to say at all.
I pause and hesitate there for a moment and consider the consequences of an ending too cynical in its view of the true nature of love and divine intervention, right before I recede in terror at the gross reality of a life based on free will and its implications for all the kids of the world just like me, who don't know what the fuck they're talking about.
Louisiana summers, listening to Duran Duran and eating Lunchables, grated cheese and Dr. Pepper mixed with Hershey's syrup. Aluminum one hitters, 1-2-3 Jello, a bird with ants climbing into its brain, a thrashing puppy spattering blood under the tire of a pickup, bluescreens and chroma keys, DV codecs, and an abandoned triceratops. The attack chopper whisper of the hyperventilation accompanying a woman's orgasm, my father wobbling on a ladder trying to pull speaker wire, IR emitters, lightning over a little league game and the haunting view from the window of United Airlines flight 175. Phil Collins wades peacefully through the water in the shallow end of the pool at his European flat. We're flustered by errant flashlights and fireworks peppering the teenage surface of the moon, out of control brush fires, and the traumatic heaving that follows the first bit of burped up Robitussin. It's elecrity arcing across jumper cables, making love for the first time in a sleeping bag in a barn, probing a kitten for fleas and leaves scattered on a tattered battered trampoline. Apple IIe's and gases coalescing into stars giving way to the satisfying crack of a sow bug's exoskeloton mixed with the echoes of arguments over a character's motivation, his depression, satisfaction and events' correlation to the their real world basis; self-destructive writer types trying to lend some authenticity to their fiction by being inauthentic. I mentioned dripping solder and flux, bubble wrap, police badges and orgies of pink mice newborns under the glow of phosphors in Shinjuku. He doesn't mention me.
Then I'm older and I'm younger and a pointless vision of a 4 year old girl on a futuristic hoverbike pans across the park-view and distracts me from the patch of blood under curls on my brother's skull. It's porno hidden in a tree house, porno hidden on a zip disk, porno hidden on a VHS tape in the empty drive bay of an old computer. Then wine coolers and MDMA, my face imprinted into the sky and downing vials of AMT in the bathroom of a Wendy's in Shibuya (how post-modern). A marine is outside my room and he's beating his pregnant girlfriend, tomorrow there will be police tape and the MP's will hang around for months, watching my awkward foreplay among the flowers in a field while I dodge powerful blows in hopes of landing a few light jabs. We lick our arms and press down evenly on the temporary tattoos and I check my baggage, nervous about the pills I have carefully wrapped and shoved deep inside my cavity. Synthetic DMT, sharkleberry fin kool-aid, cicadas and cherry blossoms, the orange tip muzzles of reactionary America quickly moving to protect our children from the imminent danger posed by being able to buy a toy gun that didn't make you look like a total homo. The audio is muffled by the fumbling of the mic in the gravel and I think of a girl thinking of me and an imploding space station, the precious infatuation of eating takoyaki on an awkward blind date diffused with the precious guilt of stuffing a frog in between the hose and nozzle, screwing it on tightly and spraying until it all exploded. You've got three foot licorice ropes, and coke slurpee cups emptied to make way for crawfish so that you might later bury them alive in the sand. You've got nothing but the water-slide nirvana of today and the rest of you life.
Now it's over and it's past and future lovers, a write-combine that finds me halfway between here and their quantum entanglement. Dead cell material from my scalp cascades across my visual field and I imagine it's got to be something like the feeling of emerging from a subway station into the humid rain and scratching my name into the bridge at Shinsaibashi. Thank God for ultrawideband, ensuring a motherly efficacy for sniffing out the scent of infidelity and an insightful glimpse at the hulking spider shell that might just be me from the future. It was The Secret of the Ooze that I sought, my official Starfox flight jacket lending me the credibility to walk with confidence through the smoke of a laser tag den even though I was a relic of the past, suspicious of the strange magic these modern beings commanded. Just before I was blowing on the contacts of Nintendo cartridges, and just then I am analyzing deciduous trees flustered by the view of my maybe-corpse from the ocean, bored in a hardware store and waiting for the inevitable promise that love doesn't keep. "Oh, how cute," she says, and I complain to my associate that I am just not sure what the final image should be. Because between one moment and the next I struggle, trying to reconcile old-world assertions of satori through dry humping in a church parking lot with post-5/11 concerns over the capacity of my miniscule forces to fight a war in two theaters against multiple global and local assailants. "We need a decision, we start filming on Friday." So get your thoughts and emotions in check and decide just what it is you want to say about human dynamics and gender roles, that is if you've got anything to say at all.
I pause and hesitate there for a moment and consider the consequences of an ending too cynical in its view of the true nature of love and divine intervention, right before I recede in terror at the gross reality of a life based on free will and its implications for all the kids of the world just like me, who don't know what the fuck they're talking about.