It looks frozen, moving so slow it cannot be perceived within a human construct of time. Arm and leg muscles struggle against pounds per square inch through an amber prison. The sun is up there somewhere, shining down on it all. It could be around another world for all it matters now. Vomit threatens emergence through jerks of choking. The sweetness of the syrup presses air from the lungs. There is no longer a separation between air and fluid. This is forever. Don’t believe? Gag on attempts to intake breaths and see. There are none available.
What a strange sensation that awareness goes on throughout the ordeal. It builds character. Some are meant to survive and some are not. Boil the skin to make it soft and peel back the truth. Set fire to the dead to scorch what is scary. Maintain cleanliness. Order the world so the trajectory of supplies can be determined when they are ejected in the blast to come. Follow the scent. Fingertips to walls to read the legacy in the dark; in absence of eyes, other abilities grow stronger. Put into the world of humans, the mouse is destined to figure out the path alone. Those kept behind the glass, floating in a tank of forever, point the way. Speed the signs and it will be clear among the riddled walks.
Lana thinks the frantic shuffling of footsteps around her is part of a bad dream. She was curled by the dwindling predawn fire this morning when she fell asleep, listening to the sniffles and restless whispers of her companions huddled on the forest floor around her. She pushed up from the ground to look around, head still foggy and bits of soil and pine needles clinging to her hair and face. Her eyes widen, alertness striking like lightning. Her people run scattered, arms scooping up children or few belongings. She leaps to action, herding the small crowd downhill to charge away from the oncoming shuffle in the distance.
Looking uphill, their watchman is slumped against a tree as the horizon darkens with the enemy. Lana squints to see if he is dead or asleep. The crimson puddle around him answers as she turns to run. But, her people are not soldiers and the adversary is trained to seek and kill. She hears thuds and grunts as people fall beside her, mixed with the desperate sounds of suctioning air back into collapsed lungs. She feels a splash of warmth fling across her right side as a man arcs to the ground in a twitching heap in her peripheral vision with his leg muscles contracting with continued attempts to run to spite death. She doesn’t care that her lungs burn as she breaks away from the pack. Panic kicks her into a survival mode and she forgets the people she pledged to protect that fall around her. The only thought was escape now. When she only hears her footsteps, she sees a ridge off the road. She dives into a hollow created by tree roots, pressing herself flat against the earth between its tendrils.
Lana hunches in the hollow listening for any movements. She tries to slow her breathing, now ragged with sobs. She clasps her hand over her mouth to try to stifle the noise. All of them are dead. I am alone. She couldn’t stop the waves of shame over running away from them all. She knew they had taken a chance by stopping where there was little brush to disguise their group, but it was necessary. She saw that the toughest of them tripping over his own feet with fatigue, his eyes sagging with the bags underneath. Days of running and fitful nights siphoned any energy left from breaking free in the first place. But that doesn’t matter anymore. At least they won’t need to run anymore. But she does.
Best wishes for a productive year and running toward new adventures.
Every year I seem to get stuck in a time warp as the end of the year comes, usually starting in October. During this time, as the weather cools, time alternatively crawls or leaps in unpredictable patterns, making me dizzy and irritable. I often lose track of time–sometimes even full days–as there is no set schedule for my work days and they all run together in a rolling blur. Days grow shorter and people seem to either become more withdrawn or more restless. That vibe can permeate even when it is meant to be a happy time during the holidays. This listless forward motion is cut with moments of gratitude, such as stopping to watch a sunset, or witnessing a random person helping another in need, a kind word, etc. Sometimes those things get lost in the background chaos, too.
Starting somewhere at the end of January, the Darkest Depths are found. Several months are spent clawing back out of the Hole in Space and Time that morphs together with trippy lights and sound effects like, “wha-wha-wha-wha”. Or, maybe, “wier-wier-wier-wier”. Or, some smoosh of those two noises as I fall down its silo. It’s hard to concentrate on life duties while all of that distraction is occuring internally. It takes effort just to be awake some days. The walls of the Depths are made of gelatin. Irregular hand grips can be seen, distorted below the refraction of the gelatin’s surface–so, I know there is a way back out. It’s impossible not to have gooey, cramping fingers due to holding so tightly in fear of the surface peeling away from its matrix with me in tow. When the piece pulls away from the wall, it tears with its handhold and me dangling from it, gently bending like a flower petal heavy with a raindrop. When this occurs, grip is usually lost and I find myself slurped right back down into the dunghole from which I just crawled. Damn you, gelatin.
I look up to the darkness at the end of the silo and start the climb again, trying to forget how far I got last time before I fell. Each trial must be seen as new pursuit. I try to maintain curiosity or else I would just stay at the bottom and await starvation.
I generally feel like I am missing something during this time period, but can’t put my finger on what that would be. It seems as if I am searching for some greater meaning in the end of one year to the next. The ability to remain calm becomes very difficult with all that introspection over what Was (or Was Not) done and all of the things that are still on the TO-DO list that stares me down, awaiting action. Add that to even more crowds and people that are stressed, and the external struggle is real, as well. Especially in the city. As the world gets bigger, I need a smaller focus. Thoughts turn to look at the world and myself. As the crowds surge, I tend to withdrawal. I consider where I am in life and where I fit into all of this. This generally turns to replayed thoughts, fatigue and worry sometime after the new year.
The goal of each passing year is to let this all go, which is a work in progress. Life is about progression–moment here, moment gone. It is much easier to be aware of my responses to all of this as I age. The point is to be aware, but not fixating. If I get stuck in the past, or am constantly considering the future, then I miss the miracles happening right in front of me.
I just realized that I want to be the lovechild of the Boulet Brothers, David Wong and Terry Gilliam. “You gon’ be a lonely girl,” she just told me. But, I don’t care. I am what I am and I have to finish my shift. The only Being forced to live with me is ME and I cannot get bogged down in minutiae right now.
Moving on:
The topic is “scary shit” from an American childhood in the 80’s. It was special back then, as the media was pushing us to touch and feel, getting out of our TV Home comfort zone. Stop-motion, clay, puppets and slime, special effects, epic landscapes, gore, fantasy and functional makeup–really interesting and flashy time with Art, as always.
Feel free to comment as the Wells of Childhood Traumas are everflowing/never dry. Yes, the Wells are capitalized as if it is a place. Those who have visited there know it. I may not have experienced what you did, but I can feel the hurt and shame, just the same, and can identify with you as a human. We were standing at the Wall together, wherever you were. I See YOU and I Hear YOU. You are NOT alone. I shall seek this common thread…
Fruit Bat! Maybe this little lovely can cheer us up. Image from imgur itseffinrae
People, weez are yer people (Gollum voice, Dork2). Here goes. Yes, I know my mind works in a strange way. I have gotten thus far in life. It is tough to be different. It is supposed to be slightly uncomfortable. I can amuse myself if it comes down to it. After everything, it seems an almost flippant response; it fastens me to thinking, and thinking can sometimes be the flatulent enemy. Gas filled, all of us. Need to treat ourselves better and/or get over ourselves. OK, task at hand…
Skooooorry stuff, y’all. Built me to what I am today. Look it up in the endless web and synthesize your own view from the perspectives of the past. Could you imagine a similar existence than we belay? Bet Not. In the South, we can go very dark in past deeds. It is so thick that I can hardly walk with these coagulated webs. I abduct my arms to view the damage of the layers. But we don’t linger long because the future is waiting…Don’t get caught up!
Yes, I realize, this is becoming a little strange, but humor me…
Chide-hood FKT 4Eva (Yaasss Marky Mark) Lszt:
Seeing bubbles before my vision was my first memory, looking up, through their distortion to the heavens on a cloudy day. I think that I was 3 years old, maybe smaller. I vaguely have the sense that people are drinking tea as I die. An idea that it may be around April.
Hmph. Figures I’d die in the Spring. Friggin Spring. The goldfish swam above me and my eyes lazily went up towards the Heavens that Remained Ambivalent. Bubbles break the surface while I commented, unable to enable speech, but clear in diction to me. Eyes moved to look at the gloom around me. The coolness on my eyeballs was slightly reassuring as new tissue gets exposed to air–or, Wait! No air. In the water, there. The globes of my eyes rotated on their axis. There is pressure as I moved eye muscles towards the clouds, sinking down. This moment may have been the end until my Grandmom pulled me out of their small Koi pond.
Yes. Beautiful. Life. And Death! Beautifully destructive to continue the churn of awareness. We must be some type of warriors. The world has always had a curious disposition since that point.
Again. Moving on! Focus, please, Fool [smacks back of my head].
*clears throat*
List of 80’s scary Shit (if you were alive then, or a weirdo Horror/Fantasy aficionado, then you may recall) in no particular order:
–Death of the Emperor and the scene of Chamberlain screaming while being disrobed in The Dark Crystal (1982)
–Death of Queen Admira in The Hugga Bunch Movie (1985)
–The Wheelers and those whack-assed Rocks in Return to Oz (1985)
–Large Marge, of course (Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, 1985)
–Dumbo’s trip with the Pink Elephants (1941 and re-released by Disney seemingly once a generation to scare the living shit out of people anew; Be like “Aw, little dude, you are abused and really high, don’t freak out, It’ll get better. Hug Mama.”)
–Heffalumps and Woozles (The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, 1977)
–The Helping Hands and Trash Lady from Labyrinth (1986)
–Stuck behind the glass and Jabberwocky scene in Alice in Wonderland (1985)
—An American Tail (1986) “There are No Cats in America” song
—The Secret of NIMH (1982). Nuf Said.
–Gmork with his eyelids pulsing up and down with evil delight, representing the Nothing in The Neverending Story (1984). And the scene with the horse? Ugh, broke my heart.
–(Indiana Jones is a repeat offender and one of my all-time favorites.) The death of the Nazi dude in Raiders (1981) and then again in Last Crusade (1989) with the cup of Christ. I probably should have been more freaked out by the Temple of Doom (1984) when that guy gets his heart ripped out/lowered into the fiery pit in undead sweaty panic. Instead it freaked me out more that there were flies all over the food that the villagers that sent Indy to his adventure were eating with their fingers. (OCD and first world innate psychosocial entitlement strikes again, I guess). Then, the alligators rolled around in glee while feasting, huzzah!
–“Perils of Punky” 2-part Punky Brewster (1985) crisis that I tried to pretend didn’t happen
—The Navigator: A Medieval Odyssey (1988). Yeah, probably the whole thing.
–Death in Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988)
–Beta in The Last Starfighter (1984)
The 80’s were when we started talking to the computer, the Void in an android form. We got used to, as I am now, finger fucking computers to write words and process the crazies that flow out of the head. Like poking your finger in the clay of the Earth with a “pffft” to break the crust on top and the energy escapes from underneath. IN-teresting.
Instead of paper or just acknowledging a presence, we are again in the age to touch. We have you, dear electronics. Wrangle reasoning if you can. Touch screen, touch people.
This is certainly not an exhaustive list. Feel free to comment if you have others.
Apathy can only project you so far until you Peter out in the swamps of irritation and begin to pitch and bail the dinghy while knowing you are going down. (Sorry Bandi, you know I Love You, Baby. *wink *wink. You too, Judit–double wink* for those who know us). This facade is a nonsense part of life and marriage, thank you for understanding in advance. You da, You da bess.
The situation set before us is actually a horrendous state if you are only feet from the shore and you just don’t want to ruin your outfit, however, the macro to SURVIVE kicks in and you are on your way. [This is planned.] But, gosh, it sure feels organic. I can be fooled by sandworms and gags, but the feeling is left idling on the stove in a simmer. It is impossible to ignore or compromise your Safety–whatever that means for you and me.
I am generally not liking the feeling of bouncing or belittling, having experienced it far too many times myself and would rather we both just have fun. But, there is a dense implication here. And one that should not be ignored. Each person should air their feelings, don’t linger, but say what you mean for a change. It is super uncomfortable and feels like the apple peeler against the arms, but, you will settle in and be better in the long run. Let Auntie Kristie tell you about it. Let Auntie Matthew tell you about it, too. Cross pollination is what built the world of bees and people. Let it Bee. Haha…sorry, just couldn’t help myself.
I see you, and I just want to Pause you in your armor, give you a smidgeon of the overwhelming incompetence that I am fielding right now. Bring you back down. Then, you would understand, that we can both bail the boat because the issue is not right or wrong, but a different question altogether. Speaking of the Altogether, I leave you with the amusement of Orbital: Meltdown, with whom I spent many days listening in the Woods and running for my life.
Thanks and credits to Serotoonladder for posting the Orbital Vids.
In all seriousness, Have a plan B. If that plan does not include people, then, make it so! Use your God-given awkwardness to exclaim, “I’m here, I’m Queer!” Oh, wait, that just sounded like a great rhyme. Love ya qweenz, but I have to get back on topic. Y’all. You already know. There is nothing you can do for a sinking ship. Do not waste your energy. Funnel it into something that you love and go ‘head and LIVE.
The question was asked, “Where are you in your yarn?” My face doesn’t move, but my thoughts pull free from the backs of my eyeballs as if somebody snatched my brain right out of my occiput. My eyeball nerves spin around each other, more rapid by the millisecond like helicopter blades, creating a migraine between my ears bad enough to think the Devil decided to use them to do hemp weaving. The cyclone motion created by my whirring eyeball nerves drives its spiral down into my guts into that empty space not meant to see the sun and I feel like diarrhea. Yes, you got it. Both the thing and the act.
Please remove your happy face from my direct line of sight. I am not the golden calf and don’t have time to placate you at this very second. I am waving my hand at you like you are in front of the TV. Or perhaps a strange safari communication technique. I just want to write, because I feel like…
…if I don’t…
…the less clicks the keyboard sticks, the more sure that my heartbeat sputters words, like cholesterol dulling each dwindling beat on the hardwood floor. The words splay like jacks around me, clacking their little pointy ends along their way away from me. Oozing and pointy, little letters trying to escape.
I peruse the day that lay before me and consider that I may be taking things a bit too dramatically. So, I take off my sweatshirt and hang my head upside down on my bed so my short hair swishes the floor as I shake my head clear from the overwhelming black blanket of the Hole (the place that I fall through and lose track of time while writing).
Ah, yes, there it is. Despair. Thin and long. Stretching out to infinity so that you squint enough that your eyes go bad, an active aging through its acts. Where does it end? Never does! Ha! Just like the character in Ender’s Saga (by Orson Scott Card), tracing the path and counting the grains of the wooden floor until infinity comes to claim me. But, with much less insight and popularity.
Self imposed goals and paths. Self imposed tortures along the way. Such is the task of the writer. Like taking a putty chisel to the well-thickened semi porous residues of the white plaster waves inside my skull. You could probably grow flowers inside there. But, that’s another story.
“My ‘yarn’?” I say, laughing with a smile like a conspirator. “Going just fine. Wish it would stay in one place enough to catch on to something linear. Water wiggle thoughts.” I hesitated a beat, then said, “But, it’s ok to not grasp them completely. Just allow myself to be amused and see what I grab that day. I always think I have time to ponder them later if they are worth anything, and I hope I do. Sometimes good ideas come in pieces.”
I think that was too much talking for my coffee companion. They ask for a meet and greet and I am standing in line while waxing poetic like a backwards Barbara Walters. Least I didn’t cry. But there is still time.
Hey All! Just wanted to make an update that there are some new pics in the Apophenia Corner and a new poem on the Story Time! page. Check it out! Have a wonderful Sat-turd-day. M’kay, back to work…
The last I saw of her was a glance back as I was leaving. Her sad and knowing round face looked drawn between the web of fingers that curled around the chain-link fence separating us. I know she was trying not to cry. It must be like tearing off the bandage every time I come to see her. But, I also want to make sure she knows that I am here for her. Twenty more years. Do any of us know how long we have in this life? Should we be allowed to know the desolate future of being stuck in a routine for that long? Just kill me, I think. But, then, I realize the pretext and what that would mean for her and I change my mind just as quickly as the thought had come.
She took the fall for something that represents only a shard of the truth. The players are so ingrained that the only way would be calculated infiltration and a very long-game plan that relies on people playing roles for nearly all of their lives. Can that be done? On a sunny day, I would say, “You do you.” But, in these cases, there must be the birds eye view: the Camera in the Sky, the Satellite. Those that can program and navigate the worst of the worst situations as the rest get eaten up in the churn. And the Masses sleep, unaware of danger. But, a necessary evil, you say. At what cost and on which authority?
When people cry for change, they don’t think down to that level. It is not as simple as writing a sign, standing in the cold for nine hours and screaming until you are hoarse, then meeting at Starbucks for the debrief. What a mess a life can make.
The Red Dot haunts every frame of every application, website or any computer shit/blah-blah electrocommunication with which you shall interact. This “Red Dot” is the name given to that minuscule electronic task that gnaws at the soul of the day. The message, flag, marker, jellybean, etc. It is something undone, something that remains outstanding. It is a torture device implemented by the Powers That Be in order to create a sense of anxiety and forward motion in modern society.
I hear myself speak on this topic and am already laughing to recall outspoken proprietors that had a similar view and came before me. They used words such as “arcane,” and “byzantine,” to describe modern computer systems, just as those before them likely did. It creates excessive huff and puff, but, really, we are kooky, friendly, and the most loving people you shall meet. We just don’t like unnecessary clicking.
But! Back to the task at hand! The Red Dot that is the pinnacle of human conditioning! It forces a person to move forward with whatever it is that the marker represents. Yes. Done. Mark in the sand. What’s next? This phenomenon is A.K.A, “Light a fire under your ass.”
Why Red Dot? Mother Computer is hovering over the mountain of this Toilet of a Time Period, alternatively relaxing and squeezing her pelvic floor muscles to express the unnecessary fluids that no longer belong. She thinks that this ordeal is private, but we are all watching, of course. She stands, immense at the top of the mountain, palms together above her, red flowing through the constraints of the body of geology, and shaking the frame from the pain.
“To Do”. Yes, we all know. To DO. Not to sit for hours liking Facebook posts and clicking your fake nail on your screen while gossiping about the nature of the Lakers in order to get a hit.
Are we at a GWAR concert, at work, an art exhibit, political debate or are we now discussing the end of the world as we can plan? One shall never know, You Sicko. I wink at you through the computer. Let’s discuss in person sometime.
That Red Dot of doing things applies to every job, everywhere. There will be some flag or other means of communication to tell you “To do.” This thing is done, that thing is done. Pass along. Get on the conveyor. Just go.
Be aware, though, that they represent very important things in some instances. If time is not taken to realize the impact of actions, or to diffuse a bubbling problem, then you should prepare for explosion. But, the check box persists and is now sending its opinion through your computer…
It is in the periphery, you know it has to be done, but it won’t come forward or sink away. Deal with it. Then move on. Such is life.
The rat in a cage may push the button for drugs instead of nestling into an area to find comfort. I am pretty sure that I just threw a bunch of historical, psychological, observational and controlled-trials together to make a sort of greatest hits mashup. Hey, this stuff can happen. We should know how people react to it, right?! [To better control them, most likely.]
The point is, is there any difference between addictions and your tasks? Think of how hard it is to say “No” to the Red Dot. It is human nature. We want to complete tasks.
Not saying it isn’t our fault. But not saying it is, either.
Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris, 2018 Paris, France, y’all.
It is an inevitable part of healthcare that one will hear very sad or terrible stories. Human life is both a wonder and a blunder of creation. Moments that make you cry with hope or shake with anger are sometimes walking with their arms linked. Thank the Powers That Be that I am not in charge of any of it.
Today, a man came in with a supposed change in mental status. The neighbors had not seen this man or his wife for some time when they noted a foul smell emanating from their apartment. The police were called, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were met with the man snuggled with his decomposing wife on the floor. The man was covered in sweat, excrement and had pressure sores on his body at each point that met the hardwoods. The medics were called and pried the two apart, bringing the man–delirious and screaming–to the hospital.
I realize that we are all met with ethical dilemmas. Most people need to choose between whether it is ok to butt in line, or whether or not you tell your spouse that you switched buying the brand name for something cheaper, or such trivial things. When you have no family–and I use that word loosely–and have clearly no will to live on after everything you have lived for is gone, what is our responsibility to another human? In lieu of sounding Kevorkian, I would hope that, when an age is reached that I am ready to give in and let go, that those fuckers would just let me be. Contemplating things like these could definitely take you far down into the wormholes of thought.
So, it was that I thought of the actual horrors of this grisly picture that the medics must have come upon while I walk back home to my New York apartment in the middle of the night after my shift. That, and thinking about American Horror Story: Cult, which I am watching. Clowns and needless terrorisms abound. I am amused that I allow myself to be slightly freaked out with the small shifts in the shadows all around me on this Fall day. Nevermind that kid on the bike zooming by who is rapping about murder at the top of his lungs. I step into the streetlights of a small thoroughfare that is on my way home, settling into my pace as the lights wax and wane in their line of linked illumination above me. There is rarely a person on the streets anywhere near this abandoned store where I tread.
A random pile of trash is piled under one of the lights. It is as if someone gutted a large trash bag and left the varied innards in a thick-lined pile at the base of the light. As I approach, I note that the pile of spilled trash resembles the length and width of a shallow grave and takes the shape as if someone is lying there. But, they would be totally covered in trash. What person would do that–especially at this time of night? Not even a bum or weirdos with their pop-up art projects. No way. Not in this neighborhood. I keep my eyes steady on the pile as I try to keep my pace and pretend that I am not seeing that shape. It is just a trick of my eyes and I am just stressed after work. Nonetheless, I think about–if something moves–what can I use to smash it in the head that is near me? Maybe I can be quick and choke them with the straps of my work backpack if someone comes at me? Who am I kidding? James Bond, I am not. The wind picks up and shifts the lighter junk on top of the trash pile just as the train goes above me in a clatter. It blows the horn with a resonant MEEEEEP! that seems to go right through me. My focus snaps up to the train when the noise makes me jump. Apparently, I am expecting the train to attack me from above. Thank you, PTSD.
Then, I remember the humanoid trash pile coming up in front of me and jolt my vision back down with a slamming heartbeat. The pile is now standing upright, and is, indeed, in the shape of a large man. It is slightly hunched with both arms held a bit away from it’s body at its sides, and I see what appears to be the rise and fall of shoulders with each breath like when you leave a video game character standing still. I blink at it as a brick of fear hits my stomach, but I am still walking towards it. My eyes widen to see if this is real, still unbelieving of what is in front of me. I now cannot deny that it is moving toward me. Clumsy from fear, my stride is shortened and confused.
I turn to start running the other way, but am met with another trash monster with a Chinese food box as a mouth, which opens in a fold-back manner as it sucks in air, then roars in my face with the flaps of the box narrowing their aperture to direct its path toward my mouth, which was agape with horror. Flecks of leftover noodles project into my hair as my face is covered in cold droplets of brown sauce with the immense force of its breath. After it seems to exhaust itself with the roaring, the monster stands still except for its respirations, drooling rotted brown sauce down to the ground with each exhalation, slightly hunched in a defensive bracing position. Its shoulders are rising and falling from its heavy respirations like the other one was. The noise is like a plastic bag caught on the front of a car. The savory-sweet, mossy smell of old food covers me in its musk. I stand perfectly still with splatters of rotten-brown-sauce monster drool on my face just gawking at the thing, waiting for its next move, locked in the weirdest standoff of my life. I recall thinking that this smell will take awhile to leave after I wash this shit off my face. I just want to get home because I have to work again tomorrow. Let’s get this over with, Trash Monster.
World According to K.J. 