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.
They say that “home is wherever you happen to be”, but I don’t believe that. I mean, that can be true or at least possible, but I find that it’s contingent on the people you’re with; Your sense of community whether they are related by blood or law or not. Perfect 2D square child’s drawing, rendering. White, awkward daisies sit smiling at the sun. A picket fence for emotional security and the family stands out front in a fashion I have never seen in real life, unless you count The Sims; You know, when you first move in? I kind of miss diving into that nothingness and wasting away hours and hours. I wonder what my life would have been like without it, or if there are some positive things that happened because I played it so much. I think home is where the heart is. And the heart longs, it aches. The soul knows when it’s not aligned. It can range from mild to agony. Just like your average salsas. The soul is just another sauce to dip chips in. Skinny dipping chips sans sea salt. Promising crunch that resounds and echos, rebounding and reverberating in hungover earlobes, stretching high through vaulted ceilings. Casper the Friendly Ghost whispers and shoots through the skylight. Game day, Football, Eating. Shoes off, comfy socks, and sports jersey. Talking with your mouth full.
A man in an oversized, deep trenchcoat with matching fedora fabric beckons slyly, his bulging eyes moving his menacing eyebrows side to side as he glances to ensure he is not noticed. His face is ugly, like a knot on an old tree that is disfigured and stuck there. The trenchcoat is open and he is dressed in black. His large, arthritic hands suffer the same fate as his face, disfigured and large, looking painful in their oversized, swollen form. He breathes heavy and erratic. One step away from a cardiac event that never comes. One step between purgatory and hell. His breath smells overpoweringly of cigarettes and coffee, the van door is open and he again, hurriedly motions to her to step inside. The girl is scared, uncertain. She wants to run, but is frozen to the spot. The fall, after-school wind sways her dress side-to-side. He takes a step forward and girl flinches, turns her face away, afraid. Suddenly a siren, and the evil spell is broken. He bolts back to the van, frantically looking around before shutting the door. The gas pedal pressure is a frantic acceleration, steering wheel making waves like it’s being held from the tip of a crayon.