Our minds are electrical freeways. Crowded, cluttered cities. Neurons shoot and fire and explode and we’re left yelling obscenities and insanities in the line at Dunkin Donuts. We’re all psychological drive-by bystanders. Caught in a sticky, mental, web-like gossamer; the hazy Saturday morning blue-gray sea.
I’m listening to compressed computer files. Drinking from an old shoe. I cleaned the apartment and now I’m dirtying it. Thinking of stuff to do. I go to sleep to dream and live to sleep. Everyday is the same yet new.
I want my life to be warm and cozy, like a Russian fur hat. Live in a tin castle. Die in a Greek Epic. I want them to make a movie of how spectacular I crashed.
I wrote a list of all the questions I want answered before I’m dead and I carry it around in case I run into the people who can provide me the answers. Some are personal. Some don’t have an answer. Some only people I will never meet are able to answer. People who are dead. People who live in distant countries. Famous people. Scientists. Thor. The guy who invented sit-ups.
Did you know that ‘goodbye’ is a descendant of ‘God be with ye’?
To the East there are postcard plains. Grass leaning towards the horizon. Highways stabbing space. Lonely towns aching to disappear. A country of gas stations and hot dog stands. Long, cold walks in woods. Wilderness we share with the animals. Werewolves and such. Black bottles of whiskey.
The highways take us there. Atlases are slashed with red interstate wounds. The land is a knife victim. I travel the impersonal roads to towns I’ve never heard of. Mountains named after outlaws. I watched desert sunsets in Arizona. The sky touch both ends of the world in Montana. I drank champagne on a roof in New York on New Year’s. I drove through the swamps outside New Orleans bleary-eyed and insane and made it through to Memphis listening to The Who.
Everywhere everything and nothing.
There are countless vines of grapes that will get smashed into wine and swish around in my glass. I will stare at the water going down the drain while washing the glass and think of my heart, so gentle and easily crushed. There will be hundreds of birds waiting in the trees to sing to you. Buddha throws up his hands and laughs. What do you do? Think of your heart. Is it full of tables and chairs and beautiful things?
Worshiping in bars. Drunk at the museum. Greasy rag sky. Blinking in the luminance of beauty.
Everywhere we go we go sure that both good and bad things will happen but when either of them do we can hardly believe it. We open our souls to stowaways and buy things to throw away. There’s a building in Silver Lake that is over ten stories tall and made of solid concrete. It’s sole purpose is so that the citizens of L.A. have an extra place to put their shit. Pretty soon the skyline will be nothing but public storage.
Everywhere we go we go sure that our thoughts alone are special and unique, but they’re not, and when we find someone just like us we call it phenomenon.
The sun is finally coming out after an afternoon of writing, of rummaging my hands through my hair in deep thought, light thought, shitty-splattery thought. In Iran they’re in the streets bleeding for freedom, while over here I can’t think of a good reason to leave the house. Even with the sun claiming its throne in the sky. With the sparrows calling me their king.
I stay home flipping through a million channels. Looking for nothing, finding it in excess.
I go out to eat and the menu is bigger than a newspaper. The food comes out in wheelbarrows. Mash potatoes you can ski down.
Pretty soon nothing is going to impress me. There will be a billboard on every building and a reality show for every person. I can now listen to a radio station in Tokyo or Berlin or Moscow if I want. I can shoot deer frolicking in Vermont from my laptop. It’s true. I can pay to fly to space except I don’t have the money to pay to fly to space, so instead I’ll go to Saturdays Off The 405 at the Getty and take in the city finely splayed out in atoms and molecules.
After I’ll go to La Cabana and order chicken mole. This city is a tapestry. I take off my shoes and dance in my bare feet. It’s a stupid analogy.
Buddha throws up his hands and laughs.
What do you do?