One time I heard a friend yammer on about reality. He kept saying: “I couldn’t find reality.” As if to imply that one reality were more real than another. He’d use terminology like “fake memories” and “wasn’t really happening.” This was hard for me to put a finger on, logically speaking.
Reality for me was the orange sky. It’s convenient to conjure up a blurry notion of what an evening sunset looks like; when the world is swathed in a warm glow, alive with color. But I knew where “reality” was. It hung somewhere in those streetlight colored clouds. Every desperate man must stare as I do into that iconic ceiling. It was the color of fever pitch yearning and struggle. It reminded us that somewhere out there was a sensation bending fire of sound and skin; all churching into a sweaty and ferocious beast that made California what it was. Somewhere the sound was too loud. Somewhere, sweat rolled like rivers down the fragile face of a tribal participant; an extasy nibbling creature of reckless sense. Hearts were pounding. But where?
Kitten made his HIV a talking point fit for a first conversation. He was too young to die. All woman, even if he was only a little girl. A childhood imagination could grasp the grandiosity of this world but be left completely dumb to the relentless subtleties in its attrition. It wasn’t easy. It was wrathful and complete in its ever-unfolding blossom of night. Set lives.
The sickly flicker of blue computer light fed this machine. Buttons attached to the sleek and clumsy alike were ever furiously depressed... over and over. Fingers fucked the keys and stroked the track pads. Esoteric magical gestures kept the mouse in fancy. Push it up. Push it to the side. Circles and lines both straight and crooked composed the path of a mouse half battery-dead. What kind of magic was this anyway?
This was a city made of cables. Made of fables. Made of streets twisting in on themselves in a mishmash of right angles and no center to speak of. One can’t help but consider that perhaps, just maybe, we are living on an endless city block filled with run-down motels. Each room is occupied by the playing light of pornography evidence tapes and the sound of feigned orgasms. It was hard to ignore the hatred.
Ghosts don’t live here - just the echoes of the uncontrollable rage and fear. The fear and loathing. I finally knew he meant. Every buzzing streetlight represented the grinding of teeth, the chewing of cheeks, the thudding of a heartbeat. Tear gas wouldn’t stop the party because nobody could decide if it had even really started yet. This was 2009. Glamor marked the era.
Reality for me was the orange sky. It’s convenient to conjure up a blurry notion of what an evening sunset looks like; when the world is swathed in a warm glow, alive with color. But I knew where “reality” was. It hung somewhere in those streetlight colored clouds. Every desperate man must stare as I do into that iconic ceiling. It was the color of fever pitch yearning and struggle. It reminded us that somewhere out there was a sensation bending fire of sound and skin; all churching into a sweaty and ferocious beast that made California what it was. Somewhere the sound was too loud. Somewhere, sweat rolled like rivers down the fragile face of a tribal participant; an extasy nibbling creature of reckless sense. Hearts were pounding. But where?
Kitten made his HIV a talking point fit for a first conversation. He was too young to die. All woman, even if he was only a little girl. A childhood imagination could grasp the grandiosity of this world but be left completely dumb to the relentless subtleties in its attrition. It wasn’t easy. It was wrathful and complete in its ever-unfolding blossom of night. Set lives.
The sickly flicker of blue computer light fed this machine. Buttons attached to the sleek and clumsy alike were ever furiously depressed... over and over. Fingers fucked the keys and stroked the track pads. Esoteric magical gestures kept the mouse in fancy. Push it up. Push it to the side. Circles and lines both straight and crooked composed the path of a mouse half battery-dead. What kind of magic was this anyway?
This was a city made of cables. Made of fables. Made of streets twisting in on themselves in a mishmash of right angles and no center to speak of. One can’t help but consider that perhaps, just maybe, we are living on an endless city block filled with run-down motels. Each room is occupied by the playing light of pornography evidence tapes and the sound of feigned orgasms. It was hard to ignore the hatred.
Ghosts don’t live here - just the echoes of the uncontrollable rage and fear. The fear and loathing. I finally knew he meant. Every buzzing streetlight represented the grinding of teeth, the chewing of cheeks, the thudding of a heartbeat. Tear gas wouldn’t stop the party because nobody could decide if it had even really started yet. This was 2009. Glamor marked the era.
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