A couple of dots on a grid that intersects in the familiar quadrants of sector “high
society.” The wind caused the leaves on his porch to rustle and the bottle to whistle too loudly. Fuck god he thought to himself.
There is no earnestness here. There is only a hoax of hellos and goodbyes. Crowds bumping shoulders and spilling drinks all over their dignity. The packs of cigarettes are never empty, the pack of condoms always on sale. And the loneliness never surpassed.
Short of a sideway glance, I thought I saw her say goodbye but the music was too
loud, her melody could have been pain bellowing from her gut exploding between the lips and teeth. A hot mess. Like piles of unwanted laundry. Knotted hair. The armpit stain. Scorching tears seeping with anger. You can feel them smoldering on your cheeks. Those ashes will never cool down. Shattered shit faced shot through the vein piss ass drunk. Be careful with broken glass. Your blood streaming down the shin, dried up blood and sticky hair, your tears dripping from the tip of the chin like a faucet that someone forgot to shut tightly. I will shut myself tightly.
Judy’s head is spinning rapidly by this point, the sugar from the earlier coffee came
and dissipated upon approach like the desert highway and haze.
Her face like highway desert haze.
Sebastian’s had it up to here. The rows of empty bottles are emptier than the shells
he carries around his neck called faces. But he won’t stand there, lined up, like
a generic trophy. His empty shells are attached to limbs that can walk. That can run. He is in constant motion, allowing himself to be led by the hand through heaps
of bad intentions. He worries his limbs about where to move so he wont worry about
why he is moving. He empties his own bottles. But they wont be as empty as Judy’s
shell lying next to him in the morning.
Please don’t turn the lights on. I don’t want to see myself giving in so easily. I
don’t want to see you wipe the corner of your crusty mouth on the sleeve of my
unconsciousness. I don’t want to see you heave in and out the gaping hole in my
judy never felt so good except when she was sleeping
Today you wash it off with a long shower, wipe it off with last night’s makeup. You slam
the door on it on your way out and stomp it downhill. You objectify it in the museum,
stare at it, tilt your head and get a better perspective on it so you can write it down on
flammable material and burn it till its nothing but the ashes of your cigarette that you toss
in a bush. And even then, when it feels like someone pulled the carpet out from under the
pit of your stomach you just blast noise till you can’t hear the creeping notion that says:
Something is very wrong with this place.
Judy forgot the feeling of being present. Her body was a cyborg cage hurled
down a conveyor belt, pricked by the mechanical limbs of terms like “culture,” “the economy” and “politics.” They adjusted her data, changed her status from “female suffering from dissociative identity disorder” to “single and looking,” modified her mood to match her purse and lipstick. Where was Judy in all of this? Hiding between the gears of her consciousness, in the fetal position at the corner of an empty page, in the gap between the black key and white key of her piano. She learned to ignore the mechanized prodding of the thermosphere, she learned to float away from her android shell and spend her days atop of a traffic light watching dots collide on a grid.
Network cell structure pinned to the landscape of banal interaction. Everyone is hooked up with cables of “web presence” at the base of their brain stem. Commands are typed up in Times New Roman font size 12 and shoved in the gap between your eyeball and your eyelid. Responses are transmitted via vomit.
i may be paranoid, but no android
Judy didn’t know what it was like to get her hands dirty. Her labor was quantified in measurements, the product wrapped as an email attachment and released into the viscid world wide web-like maze of information, the interactions facilitated through intoxicating grog, the sex sterilized, the foreign affliction and death marginalized to statistics printed in bold on posters asking for money. And Judy was clean, all smudges of guilt or fulfillment purified and packaged in a plastic water bottle, refreshment for sale.
9:00- unconscious psyche exploration disrupted by nuclear holocaust warning bells
9:15- steaming water streaming
9:30- apply mask, wig, and costume. shroud insecurities with cover-up excuses.
10:00-2:00- get talked at. stare at lips and teeth moving. get hungry.
2:00- ingest high fructose corn syrup and cow manure. repress nausea.
2:00-7:00- stare at words. words stare back.
7:00- ingest carbs. force laughter and commentary on the day.
7:30-2:00- “socialize.” be socialized, normalized, dehumanized.
Acted upon, irrelevant, a lame duck. Sebastian could never leave his room and nothing would change. He could go to class and grab some lunch and nothing would change. He could escape the viscid web of urban life and nothing would change. He could pick strawberries for the rest of his life and nothing would change. He could donate 20 dollars to the Red Cross fund and nothing would change. He could snort coke and nothing would change. He could knock Judy up and nothing would change. He could kill his parents and nothing would change. He could kill himself.
He could do whatever he wanted and nothing would satisfy
On line to buy drugs at the pharmacy, Judy saw on the magazine stand a headline
that read “2045: THE YEAR MAN BECOMES IMMORTAL.” Even the most basic
and eternal human connection, death, was being mechanically assaulted, codified
and crammed into RAM, rendered automated and irrelevant.
Judy wanted to run outside and get hit by a car only to know what dying felt like
before it was too late