Life v.2

Wipers wash water drops distorting vision, flattening it back out to consistancy. I arrive here, at my place of work.

A nun was shot through her large fast food wax-gilt cup. She didn't realize she'd been shot until I pointed out the gunshot wound.

cracking slowly through the carapice. Reality dripping and globbing, the colors swirling in tight coils like goopy oil paint sticking to itself.

Living the life---Contained in it is the code of the maintained life that shoots up through the human-being’s back like the spinal chord; and segmented just the same. The human animal—this is conventionally refers to an authors sense that this idea is somehow ironical, which it clearly isn’t—is the driving force for all human action, and interaction. Art is sex, art is bodily hunger art is nerve ending disturbances, and left-over dream-cake. Life is also—as all things left to themselves for a great long time—cluttered, an absolute mess of images, feelings and sparks of empty-train inspirations, waiting for you to board. Who’s conducting? Where’s it headed—why are there so few on board (besides this woman in a black hat, and the teenage-baseball-boy in the next compartment)? So much of life is rooted in the fear that the living life might be hurt or pulverized in the train. Spiders down a secret tunnel, crawling, biting, laying eggs on the forearm—infection, abscess, gangrene, amputation, sepsis, death.

I knew enough about the destination to know it was not likely dangerous to my life. One can often see the habitable, nesting inertia of the longer life necessitates the hammer- smash of little jaunts such as this. I drink cranberry juice; the sun doesn't set as the aircraft travels with the day across the ocean--so I pretend, looking through the glass, and the warped fellow travelers, bloated male-flight-attendant, Sky-Mall Magazine Text--blazing red like auxiliary power on a submarine. Cleaning my fingernails. My shoes are uncomfortable. The man sitting next to me asked if I work for a famous IT company; I don't.

Everson

I Wrote This a While Ago:

The death of Everson was expected. His father died the same way. Sleepless nights and half conscious days, he drifted along until his death caught up with him—nothing dramatic. He was standing on a dirty side street, with Coke cans and cigarette butts choking up the sewer drains. Greasy uneven bricks surrounded him, and the recesses of the broken tenement house windows made him feel like he was in a soggy bird-cage. An immigrant boy sat on a green knoll behind a waist-high chain-link fence in front of one such house. With his drippy nose and scant clothing, the boy was like a fixture—more like the bricks than like me Everson thought. As he admired the boy’s head with its crew cut and sanguine unknowing expression, Everson began to die. The pain itself was not all that great. It was rather like feeling his body go to sleep—like a creeping nothingness. The pop which could have rendered him unconscious, instead greatly distorted his sight. The boys head blew up like some repugnant circus balloon. Confusion at this sight together with a diminished sense of equilibrium caused him to crash instinctively to the ground whaling like a stabbed animal. The man tried abortively to escape his confusion, as if waking up from all nightmares was practice for this moment. Slipping into his coma, he began to give up and make peace with the nothingness, as all dying things must do—in this regard Everson was certainly a pragmatist: if going with the flow meant less pain for him, then why fight it?
Everson was not an important man. His life was middling

Ice Water

Everything depends so very much on ones state of mind. Even a belch can be sensuous to observe, whilst in the midst of undulating gentle pleasure-pangs of a tired afternoon bowel movement. This goes for gum chewing, and apple biting as well. Sometimes it is a natural bodily function which delivers one to the happy role of defenseless observer--alternately one could have finished ones own lunch, only to be completely drawn-in by a classmate girl's periodic, coquettish little sips from a soda can. The variables of these moments, these human vantages, are infinite, but there is some structure which is important to note--1) The human warmth 2) Digestion 3) Pheromones 4) Mono no aware. The fifth idea, that of vulnerability is never more important than during these reveries, for one could be swept up by a broom, shot by an intruder. The feeling is rather like what one imagines is felt by the struggling anaconda after it has eaten a puma or a jackass, laboring in a grassy estuary hoping not to be caught hiding with its secret digestion, its secret pleasure locked in its head and in its gut, utterly cognisant of the impossibility of escape from those who might seek it out to slit its guts and release its pleasure---either way this prize cannot be held onto forever.

There is a special sound as I sit here in the study with the window opened near. Resonance--a sort of buzz-ring, created by distant cars with their spinning tires, overnight road construction projects, the amalgam of AC fans, late night baseball game skylight generators, 757 aircraft engines---All cutting into the air, slicing it, crushing it, pushing it, sending it retreating in all directions in effeminate clearish purple curly-locks of turbulent micro eddies cracking and whipping, crying, complaining. The battle is far off, sound pillowed-over by distance and obstructions, brown-painted fences, generic aluminum siding, awkward children at play in roller skates on the road slowing traffic, sometimes nearly dying, for games.

Practice. We started giving names to each tooth. One was a porcelain dental implant so was it's neighbor. We like not to think of the screws and cement bonding them to our maxiofacial bones, and for now at least, gum tissue does the job of disguising the complex, sharp, alien infrastructure. One interesting phenomena concerning these teeth is that since they bond directly to the bone, there is no give. A normal tooth can sway 1/4 of one millimeter in either direction without causing the least discomfort-these teeth are hemmed in by a feeling of tautness--they are pulled in and tied neatly then cushioned by bone meat. Normal teeth can also 'feel' the rough surface of the tongue running over them, glazing and cleaning them. The porcelain teeth can jostle against their screw anchor, but the anchor itself is completely stationary--this feeling of inescapable stillness combined with the general bulging shape of the artificial tooth along its rear (as they're designed to prevent the introduction of foreign particles into the makeshift gum-sockets) leave the sensation of a blankness, a vaccuum; the small death-penalty: Two gravestones. In short these porcelain teeth felt like death; Immutable and unnatural. Rocks around which there swirl the liquid complaisancy of life spreading around them--life made to adapt, to swell and create new, albiet auxilliary, models for subsistance.

There is a restaurant where the cows come before you, just like lobster in the tanks, before they are sloughtered for your dinner. The cow is lead before you by the tall French chef's-attendant. You see your soon-to-be dinner as it lives--A lazy dumb, fat, drooling, terrified--simply delicious creature. The walkway is a clean steal one. The tables are situated around the walkway as if this were a fashion show. This is not so different from a fashion show. The lights are all pink red, and the floors, square pillars and ceilings are black. The design is clearly meant to echo and inspire in one the creuel machinations of the sloughterhouse, though tasefully softened by the eleganty festooned company and the perfessional slim-fit service, the lightglobes, the did-up faces all turning and eyeing the prey; hands shuffling between smoke, heads bobbing in silence then variously instigating muffled constipated little bouts of excited discussion. The cow ambles by and turns at the end in a half-moon. Anus showing behind tail, urine dripping. This thing is alive and is slowly, calmly (calmer now) lead back to its death-room--each shadow dances in and out of pink globe light, a spotlight for each conspirator taking turns to sign up--eyes turning (and cow eyes turning) shooting around aiming for others' enlistment, seeking the collective approval--the carnivalesque courtliness of the Killing. It's screaming.

My father and sister had me in the back seat of the car. My sister always wanted to be my mother, and I imagine she saw this as her chance. The road branched to an off ramp which led up over the green strata of deciduous trees which had caged us. I knew this was a wrong turn, and I told my father this, but he was headstrong. Realizing he was wrong, the car parked in a rocky-high parking lot on the edge of a ridge overlooking the highway and the ramp-exit. Looking to the the side opposite the highway one could see a bay, the land curving and forming a calm u, with black jetties like the jaw-bone of the mouth and tow-boats bobbing like loose teeth at the inlet.

Back on the highway, the grade increased and we reached the apex of the island; a vantage from which we could observe both sides of the island. The windward portion side had evidently been carved by wind and water to a much greater extent. We drove down on a road, which as far as I could tell, was attached to a cliff-wall. The mall was nestled at the bottom there beyond the range of discernibility. On the road we encountered a scenic rest area, where a Japanese man and his little girl were in the middle of the road, taking pictures of a sprawling canyon road spread before us like a great frozen flame.

At the mall we looked at fossilized crabs, walking chickens made of blocky plastic, boxes of talking dolls, and an antiquated television/stereo set from the early 1980's. At the mall movie theatre they showed previews of an upcoming Lucas detective fiction/noir movie; all dressed up in satin red and blue, clouded light-globes and cocktails party and punctuating 1920's gunshots. We walked on. The mall was expansive.

The light-buzzing numbness of the after flight dehydration--the sodium food and low air pressure plugging the intestines and bloating the soft-tissues. The reanimation of constricted muscle-groups poisoned by alcohol and lack of sleep. The want the need the pain of piss passageways, stinging from piss rationing.

Being called stupid, being called foolish, childish, head in the clouds. Watching the faces of deformed, listening to their demands, pretending not to hate their blemishes, scars of anxiety, burn victims patchwork hands, pressing small-change into them with average handed bravado--perhaps bad luck comes to those who touch these hands--Smiling back at the lip less, feigning personal connection with the fuckability of those who could afford gleaming strait orthodontic lines aside from all else. Realizing she works in a Liquor store beside a discount market beside a slumping commercial oriented knitting supplies and RU-486 byway. She didn't check my ID, which is strange considering that people ID me going into porn shops, and I'm 23. I'm strange like her she likely mused--the camaraderie of the strange faced--We're I to see myself as being considered a compatriot with this one, when I was 10 I would be horrified and demand to know what was wrong.

A childhood friend once told me that if he could have one wish granted, he would like to see himself as he would appear in 10 years. I thought that a very strange wish at the time. I find the thought stranger now that he is a stranger to me...a darker, more sadistic, and driven to given to the rockets of home-house-marriage and brown leather loafer old boys club, brass and fern bars, on the happy periphery of ivy leage regalia, confused biologically--wanting to kill the mother, friends with the sister above the mother type.

Green room, green darkness. A massive pillow, wrapped in plastic, green and red with a Greenbay Packers logo...Made to look like a brick of cheese. Friend convinces me to mix it with my thoughts of starships, attacking me in my face with plastic models exploding for 70's pre-programmer age nerds, finding ways to invent the ways they would waste their time, smocked in hawaiian shirts, curly long hair and bearded, unlike me (evermore). They WASTE thier time with beauty these guys. They WASTE their time with perfecting (to what end anyway?). THEY LEARN TO COMPLETE THE RUBIC'S CUBE IN LESS THAN 45 SECONDS, FROM ANY POSITION. I Tell their girlfriends "I WANT YOU DEAD" in so many words, throwing friesbees above razorsharp steel clotheslines for them to cut their own heads off at catching. Heads toppled down from egos presuming to teach me about the mores, muddy formation off the coast of Ireland; fucking bitch stupid erudite clumsy dork fucks aborting their clever oversensitive bs out of existance thankfully.