You talk about compromise like it’s some stick in the mud, some wound to be wasted, infected with oozing pessimism. Compromise like a world awakened and gone back to sleep. Eyes open and shut like cases, like a bag shaken out. I am empty and that’s all that’s left of me. But I want to breathe and believe in something other than magic and happenstance; Something other than Disney fantasy because happily ever after only goes as far as the camera zooms out and fades to black with grand orchestra, sweeping strings, lovely ballads made from consonant upbringings. I’m not saying it’s all gotta be painful and bad, but the story never just ends there. And even if you die alone in Tom Riddle’s house, there was certainly one person you meant in which you inhibited some memory. Imagination stretching outward, dancing darlings come, become crimson in their cheekbones after a long workout. I’m talking about college dorm rooms in November or December; Fresh snowfall and roommates gone home for the weekend. I’m talking letterman jackets and homemade sweaters, fireplace, hot chocolate, lovers gaze under low light. Youthful magic becoming more distant. We are comets, we are meteors, drifting away from the beginnings of our timelines in zero gravity. We are Tom and B’Elanna in spacesuits stranded, but hopefully cradling one another. And if we have to compromise to be there, so be it. There is nothing admirable about gargantuanly taking up space.
Leather and the smell of straw on a cloudy, dark day. Horses whinny in the background as barn doors get unlocked and opened, undoing thick metal bolts and chains. These horses are all special and they all have names. Different colors and personalities. I only gone horseback riding a handful of times. It’s a painful recovery usually, but so much fun. Horses are majestic creatures and have this quiet knowledge and understanding and intuition about them. The last time I rode was in Massanutten, Virginia in…2016 I think it was. I had a horse named Billings. He was whitish grey with dark spots, and I had to continuously pull up his reins to focus on the path, as he would sometimes get distracted by smells and the desire to eat grass whenever he saw fit. My chinese horoscope sign is the Horse, and I always felt it suited me; It’s always felt accurate when it comes to my behavior. Always watching, sometimes shy and timid, late bloomer-esque. But smart, kind, compassionate, welcoming.
Saddles are heavy and hold stirrups. They become uncomfortable after long rides. I don’t know how John Wayne did it. Do you eventually get used to it after awhile? No wonder why whiskey was so popular; I’d also want to drink my ass off at the next town over, just to forget about the constant discomfort from sitting.
Sphere found in the tongue of a clam singing taps because it doesn’t know how to play trumpet. Un-reined talent bubbling to the surface. It is Disney’s The Little Mermaid and Ariel’s hair is so, so red; so outrageous and outstanding that I want hair like that. I want it to billow fully in the ocean underwater. A necklace and earrings and bracelet that makes a statement about class, about worth, about being worth your salt. These captured rarities sent for sale and made for purchase, on display in windows and on hand mannequins and busts with no head or remaining torso. It is neutral and functional. A shopkeeper comes to the front of his store as the bell rings, signaling entry. Footsteps clack and click in both light and heavy percussive tones. Dirt trails. Camera follows up vertically to the face of a man with a five o’clock shadow smoking a cigar. He is a cartoon. He has no lines; His only direction is to look menacing, which he does, chewing the stogie so roughly that it’s mildly amazing how he does not actually eat it. Next to him stands a terrified Barbizon past-model with black hair. She is also a cartoon. Somewhere between Futurama and Arthur her skin is a pale yellow, her lipstick, fuchsia.
A cell turned inside out gravitates towards the inner walls of the body in which in inhabits, turning tricks at us all, mocking the viewer, eyeball agape and wide, glaring down the huge magnification apparatus that we call a microscope. But to the cell its macro. Recent developments have led us to believe that we must now rewrite all that’s been written, cast aside all that we know, and let this be demonstrated in real-time, avant-garde, on a stage, nude, carrying buckets of eggshells because how could we possibly know which one came first? Regimented regulation, siamese consciousness, the parallel universe from which it all unfolds, like a book, like a piece of laundry – symmetry and aesthetic duress. Razorblade sharp and razorblade thin, skating on the wings on ice queens that have never eaten a hamburger before. And just when you think it’s all over, just when you think you can’t take anymore, there you are again – Siphoning the DMT from the rock, struggling and wracking your brain, trying to crack it, trying to open it and it’s the Big Bang All Over Again. Not nice anthems tell you to suck it up and keep trying, but you’re worthless and will never succeed. Plush peace sign pillows as carnival prizes. Stamps are adhesive and stick to the things we stick them to. First class mail is a lie. Peddling puppetry on a stage cast by those we obscenely trust, turn the other way and suck our thumb. Pacifist pacifier.
Shopping mall consequence. A deluge of Christmas shoppers rush on by; A too-congested Frogger – pre-COVID. Dancing, pirouetting stoned and stone-faced. Shouting, but unheard above the din. No one will remember these Nike shoes in 20 years, and no one should. The white and black with the swoosh is just something that’s normal; expected to be there. Food court teenage drama happens to be the least important thing to everyone except the people experiencing it. Fountain coins and tears over flip-phones and text messages where you have the click one button multiple times to get the letter you want. We can train our minds to do anything. Necessity is the mother, first and foremost. Annoyance at bangs that won’t get out of your eyes, when Hot Topic plays really shitty music that is like the goth bedroom of the whole entire establishment. It’s a culmination of cliques and high-school social group categories, scattered among pristine real-estate space, grey and silver with bathrooms that have automatic flush and motion-detection soap dispensers. Malls seem to me like failures. Like, “here we are the human race and this is all we got”. This is our strongsuit. These temples built to praise and cultivate capitalism. New churches that center around a temperamental and ever-changing God. A sea of cars. Coming back out of the fantasy. Trying to remember where you parked.