Theories on Everything activated the human scheme, simplified nature’s intentions of order. Applied to metal and microchips, mortal person was able to sit at the edge of his bed, spine curved to center vision on the cellphone held in his steady hand, researching the Johnstown Flood of 1889. To compare the usefulness of inventions to society’s desires the addition of context is required, this disrupts any cackling from a smoker’s lungs, or the proverbial cannon-ball fodder which plagues the parking-lot crowd. (Cadillac driver is omnipotent in a Devil-May-Care sorta style, while a Buick-whatever passenger rides the clouds like she was Zeus fucking a Pegasus among the stars.)
Freedom consumes the perceiver to retain actual data from the plethora of malfeasance plaguing the divide, a space clueless in its retention to understand conquered dominion, it resets progress when pushed forward and forever along the way Freedom rows…
Space (bleeding nothing of value) rests her wounds on the arms of her Lazy-Boy recliner. Consumed by lounging posture, she reaches for the ceiling and grasps at the holes in her walls for balance. Gobsmacked by fear of falling, a fear developed from knowing that plunging stars are already deceased once viewed by the mortal eye. She believes in a better disposition to relieve the cosmos of its pigeonholed woe, as completion in knowledge reaches climax, conclusions will be recognized to imprison the thinkers and the end is SURELY nigh.
Opinions are branded as useful when appointed as the top search on Google. Arguments for or against a topic risk abandonment once the top Google search confirms or denies their standpoint. We live in an age of confirmation through information, not wisdom acquired through knowledge. When we trust companies like Facebook to organize our methods of discontent, IE protest and debate, we sacrifice the authenticity of an organic uprising and turn outrage into a fashion statement.
Ol’ Whitey appears to highlight their street-cred, trying on outfits the night before a riot, posing in a body-length mirror, envisioning their Anarchy-A patch flashing across CNN’s screen, abbreviated like a news ticker to distinguish useful jargon from cheap babble. I’ve had these conversations a-plenty about the plot of systemic racism. ONLY. The lips which spoke of this injustice learned of these disparities from their highly educated professor that triggered a dopamine hit of outrage in the young beating brain, so young it’ll abandon any passion it once had for the disenfranchised once so-and-so acquires a bit of money and doesn’t want to pay higher taxes to ensure the less fortunate aren’t left behind by way of a shit education. Ol’ Whitey doesn’t give a fuck. I mean to say. Ol’ Whitey doesn’t stand in solidarity. Ol’ Whitey stands for the camera. For the Instagram post. For the Facebook argument. Ol’ Whitey stands to someday employ the citizens, to pay them next to nothing and decree they’re doing something to help…
Abraham fakes a smile, pondering out loud he contests: “if reality is about perception and a smile, though faked, is the gesture I’m presenting for interpretation to the public, while my internal monologue wails in woe…” He fishes around in his pocket for money. “A faux reality,” he insists, “is real if it’s the only one available for interpretation. The human experience is subjective…” He slaps the money down onto the counter, holds his index finger erect, perpendicular to his eye-line and raises his eyebrows in jubilation. “IT’S THEREFORE IMPOSSIBLE TO LIVE A LIE! IF LIES ARE ALL WE HAVE, THEN THE LIE IS REAL!” He shouts.
“Sir,” the female clerk behind the counter interrupts his rant, “though I appreciate your energy, it ain’t the time for it. Now.” She says pointing at a row of menus posted above her head. “What would you like to order?”
“Oh, uh…” Abraham continues smiling, “I guess what I always have….a number four with a diet coke.”
Sleeping, in the context of biochemical transcendence, is an act of defiance against external influence, courageous in scope to internalize stimuli and delegate reactions like a bankrupt toy store hemorrhaging equity. Of consequence: Evolution found the human experience so boring it decided to enhance it by regurgitating the happenstance of day to day, placing this cast of characters (some familiar, others brief as highway exchanges), environments and tools and handed the contents of experience to a butcher, trusted his judgement of what was viscera vs. the fat of the land.
It’s impossible to debate the relevancy of what’s transpiring in a dream state, we accept the chimeras as they manifest. Dreams are oppressive and yet we associate them with childlike wonderment, insisting they occur only whimsically, the sinister truth is that Hitler and Buddha shared the same abandonment toward the human psyche. Dreams create if to destroy the very environments and hosts which shelter the electrical impulses coded with Being that created Socrates profile on the cave walls so eloquently. It’s in Waking Life that we become what we are, it’s during sleep that our brains tell us who we should be.
God speculated creation, or perhaps the Grand Design was delegated on a whim, like a game of Never-Have-I-Ever, but the consequences were measured in metrics. Understanding life quantifies the outset with emotions, feelings and various scales of morality posited by the operator of consciousness. For instance: grabbing a roll of toilet from the shelf only feels empowering when it’s the last one during a pandemic. But the strut of deliverance from store to car elucidates chaos as a patron lingers in the parking lot and stabs the tissue owner to acquire their possession. This is equivalent to the Sun burning itself dry, we’re not special for this reason. Experiences we value are not ours to understand, or at the very least, appreciate.
We invented ways to convenience communication and as it becomes easier to access these methods humans are melted to a candle-wick posture of relevance to occurrence, the human grin is to the emoji as the fingers are to the operator who pushed the button on the keyboard. Victims of spirituality, slaves instructed to kneel in the presence of the soul proprietor, this is what we appraise, reasons to die, not to live. Gifted with a lifeline and tormented by the when and where of expiration.
Toochi cups his hands, blows into the flesh cavern, desirous to fill the crevices in-between fingers, to clarify plagiarizing words from gestures. Touch of porcelain is vanilla fanfare, touch of purple and John the Baptist’s head sings of the coming rapture, touch of a parking sign and the neighborhood children question the motive to eat vegetables.
Toochi is certain a slow moving red Prius is following him, its color morphs from red to pink as the sun interchanges angels of inflection on the metal exterior. Cataracts abound, he pauses on the street corner, removes his cellphone, points the camera toward the sky and films the overcast. Pink Prius is down the block, driver watches Toochi’s actions in the rear-view. The red Prius pausing has Toochi concerned, and the driver is bound to question the filming of a blank sky. Both of them ponder on the other, until another other captures their interest.
Encounters, brief as highway exchanges, saved on fascinated tongues, rolling Rs, or selling short the T, to complement a verbal fascination when language confided in description: Homebody lifted a glass filled with cheap bourbon and set it down on the corner of his table, and bolstered from lessening standard animations, his limbs procured to flail, puncturing speech with gestures to ensure the audience was on him, influx of caution revealed its conclusion as his fingertips toppled the glass, bourbon pooled in the corner of his table, while the plastic barrier bordering the ledge, no taller than a centimeter, prevented it from spilling to the ground.
Audience demanded a very American hubris, the kind instructing apologies to occur after brushing a stranger’s shoulder in the frozen vegetable aisle of the supermarket, (friction between consumers), or a promise to spay and neuter a house-pet, or simply to state please while asking for vegetables during dinner.
Homebody tore a square of paper towel from its ream, took a bow and used the towel to soak up the liquid, days progressed, the smell of bourbon wafted from his garbage and Homebody thought: ‘oh yeah, I should dispose of this mess outside.’ But abandoned his thought for the smell reminded him of life now and he stared at a robin’s nest through his kitchen window, facing his backyard, and contemplated saturating the eggs in the basket with his touch, so the mother had an excuse to leave.
Concept of echo, as if understood at the ledge dipping voice into an empty chasm built from stone and water, demonstrates the very desire to hear back. The gesture is infiltrated by various distortions, hiccups, a cough, impenetrable laughter, confines of genetic material to which we lack dominance. We surrender then to vibrations, decorating the stone walls. But at the outset understood the lingering voice is owned by the shouter. This boomerang resiliency complicates the trajectory to structure Self, to place it concretely as the walls concealing the echo. We then must laugh at the inside punchline, puncturing a belly full of humor, watch as this fog lingers and distorts vision to distinguish from here to there. The influx of distance requires the observer to abandon all subjective intent to appreciate clarity as it manifests. Then, on the horizon, as the fog lifts and the cityscape dissipates to nothing more than glass and concrete, we know where to tread, where to appreciate mirrors as windows, where to welcome the voice back home.