Now, what I know is that it will be done in three places, by three people, in three separate times. They won’t know that what they do means anything, but when seen in bigger content, maybe it will make some sense.
How I remember her now is she’s trying to write something about me while crying. She tries to write, maybe get a couple of lines, then get 2 or 3 words, and her hand starts to shake. She squeezes out a couple of words more, then her body starts to shake, and before anything she puts her hand over her eyes and starts to sob. The crying is not strong anymore, she is through that part, but the feeling wells up and she starts to sob like a pile of ooze would pour through an open wound.
She is trying to put this down because she wants to remember me. She has every detail down; she does have everything in her head. But the thing is that when she tries to remember feelings that she thought she had sorted out comes out again. They don’t exactly coarse through her, they more like ebb and corrode her head.
So writers put their thoughts down on paper, maybe if she was a painter she’d try to draw my portrait in remembrance, and if she was a musician she’d write a song.
Anyway she is trying to write a story about me and me myself I was trying to write a story about everyone. And I mean everyone around me, even the ones I walk by. It’s a strange thing really, but since I was aware, I always wanted to know how we connect. What is it that brought that heavy-set man eating a sandwich to this street, how did that man setting up his shop for the day came to open a business here, how did that woman typing away in her cubicle came to that office, or how that man in his room eating a bowl of cereal rented that room.
It was when I was a kid and saw that apartment full of light that got me fascinated I suppose. All those lights meant there were lives in those rooms, people living and doing things and never realizing that there maybe another person living by, all are only aware that there is a sound coming from the next room. If at all possible I would have set up cameras on all those rooms and watched them all.
But I couldn’t. It’s impossible and impractical. How could I peep into someone’s life anyway? Who’d give me the right? But I wanted to see it. I wanted to see how people lived; I wanted to see how people not lived like me. I wanted to see lives that weren’t my own, this disgusting wasted little piece of shit life that I have to live. I wanted to know that peoples’ lives were better than my own, so that I could tell myself that everyone IS living a life while I was just sitting down and watching everything.
But what is now important is what you will hear and see for the rest of your life. Yes, you used to say that everything has been said before by people smarter than you, but that none has ever heard your version, so why not just say it. But listen, you haven’t multiplied how many times things have been said to the length of time the mankind has started to speak, starting from that growling. Somewhere down the line someone somewhere has said what you would have said, all down to the dot. You may really have little to no chance to ever say anything new. The only chance you have is that maybe if you hear and see what is going on, some strange thing may happen that you may one day come up with something that looks from every way something someone has said before, but no one is sure from where.
So like I said, all you can do from now on is just to keep your eyes peeled and ears open.
Besides you said some long time ago that your intention was to truly immerse yourself in that shared consciousness among men and talk about how that feels.
Okay, now what ought to be talked about is what I have inside. The thing is about a quail’s egg big, though for some reason it grows big. Its surface is callused and looks as if full of scabs. It feels hard on touch, but it’s not the kind of rock solid hard, but more like a solid outer shell with soft inside kind of hard. Closest sensation would be that of wet turtle shell. In there is a man, skinny to a point where he literally is nothing more than a skin stretched over bones. His teeth are all bare out with his lips pulled over, his eyelids are constantly open and his eyes never stop moving. He looks at what he is, is sickened by it and is sickened by it, and looks at the others and is mesmerized by them. He looks at them and they hurt his eyes, as if they are the sun and their inner beings are brimming with light. He looks at himself and his shriveled up self and is sickened by it again. He keeps thinking why I am not like that. Why am I not like those people. What have I done to have this on me. He keeps thinking why but he can not come up with any answers, nor can he come up with any emotions. All he does is just look and wonder.
Forget it. All you are trying to do is just walk around with a delusion in your head. You don’t want to deal with anything, so you just walk around thinking how it would be. But what if that is all that I have. To live through days starting at things, chew them up in my head, reconstruct them and believe that what is being played back in my mind is the true reflection of what is around me. A man eviscerated and still walking around, boy vomiting from the scent of a woman’s foot, vulgar display of breasts, having sex in the street and enjoying it, shadows flying over the buildings and sewers filled with cum and shit and guts and water boiling to make life plants soaked in semen and woman spraying her child with her pussy juice men gang banging a dog while it moans in vulgar pleasure, maybe that is all in my head but that is surely reflection of what I see everyday
Now tired and light headed I feel like this would be the proper place to go into myself or my head and see what I am. I am just someone in my world reading a book I am always reading and while I read I take no notice of what is around me and as I read more I start to lose track of reality and while reality goes away I start to float off of my self and I float into the air and still I do not notice what I am doing and as I read more not only am I floating but I start to water out of my mouth eyes ass dick and ears and soon my room is a water tank where I float but still I read. In that water I move every which way the tide takes me I move to the bottom where fishes swim around the coral reef and the sun barely shines but the underground growth of phosphorescent algae kept the room in luminescent green and I move to the top where the sun shines through like the corridors of heaven and the fishes tickle my body to snatch off dead body cells and I cringe and tickle but still I read. I read but nothing is in my head the words simply swim into my eyes and move around my body they caress my body in satisfying love touch of someone I long for but fail to see its face.
The first thing was the sound in the train like that of a lottery ball bouncing inside of a plastic tube (but strangely the sound also made me think of a fat man snoring, his pouch belly sticking out each time he breathed). When I heard that sound my mind was ripped from me and I saw a shag green carpet, large brown lacquered embroidered mirror, and a plastic fish swimming around in a plastic tube. The fish elevated itself in accordance to the air pressure in the room. But no matter what height the fish was in, it kept a steady rattling in the tube.
And there they were, the man and the woman. The woman was sitting on the man’s lap, her right hand on his left shoulder and her left hand on her lap. Their skin was white to a point one was reminded of the lady in the DuranDuran album “Rio”. But whereas the woman in the CD cover was smiling at you to dare you, the woman’s face was non distinct thanks to the black hair that covered her face save for the lips and some parts of her cheeks. From the lips alone none was able to tell what she thought. Maybe she didn’t think at all. All she did was just sit on his laps. And nothing more.
The man, in describing him accurately, one would only have to say that he is the perfect opposite of the woman. His face was just as pale, his face just as expressionless, one would think that they are nothing more than a mirror reflection of her. But his breasts were flat, and his genitals stuck out whereas hers were sticking in.
So they just sat, and they sat for a long time. So much so that the faint sound of the plastic fish rumbling in its plastic tube was the loudest sound in the room. But just as they silently sat, they moved their face towards eachother’s way and kissed each other ever so quietly as if they feared that what they were doing was bad enough, they did not want any more attention on themselves. They kissed with only their lips touching, they moved nothing else, and they kept that position for a long time.
And all I did was look. I just looked at them kiss each other with out utter sound, emotion, even the barest of motion. But maybe in that quiet they felt each other.
Then the train came to a rather violent stop and I had to realize that I was still where I left myself last time.
The next thing was when I heard another thing in the train. It could have been the ventilation working, but the sound made me think of a coffee machine that blew steam right onto the coffee beans and let the condensation drip through the beans, making a cup of coffee. The steam and the beans were contained in a small metal box that was connected to another steel box that was slightly larger than the last. She stood at the counter watching the box on the top dripping the coffee into the box on the bottom. She was her usual quiet self. But you see this is where it becomes a little strange because I noticed that she was not quiet because she has given up or anything. She was quiet because she has everything she wants in her life. She has a place that she can call her own, and a boyfriend. She did not want anything more than that, and she knew that she will have this until the day she died. She was the quietness of the one who knew that they could retire and sit, watch the whole world twirl itself silly while they just sat, she on his laps and him holding her hand.
Then the train came to my stop and I got out.
And all the sudden I remember it. Strange how memory comes back to you when you least expect it. It’s about the floor board in my room. It creaks whenever I step on it. It gives away one day and I see not the dirt basement I thought I would, but I see a patch of fur. Shit-brown and prickly like that of a wet rat. The fur was pulsating with 4 mouths and 6 eyes, all the eyes staring at me with no light of intelligence in them. I boarded up the floor and went to sleep that night. That night I dreamed of a giant mutated rat, too big to move and stuck in the foundation of the house. I dreamed it squirm around growing hungry, so much so that one day it will wriggle itself free and break open the floor, gobbling me up and breaking any parts that gets stuck in its mouth.
Dreamed a little bit while going back home. I was a kid and crying and laughing at the same time. My face was screwed up in pain, I was squeezing out tears like they were horribly constipated clumps of shit, and my mouth was twisted up into the shape of laughter until it looked like a crescent moon lying on its side. I was laughing alright, with the pitch that made you think I have given up on breathing. My laugh was coming out in a single drone, lifeless yet giving out tone like I was enjoying my laugh, while tears poured out and burnt my face.
Somewhere in my head a voice whispered “I didn’t mean for him to realize that, I swear.”
And I kept laughing but tears were starting to come out slower. Soon I would have stopped crying and just kept laughing. Then I got to my stop.
Before going to sleep I thought about the place where I would probably feel the most comfortable in. When I was 17 I thought the place was as a doormat in sorority girl meeting. At about 20 or so I thought maybe the place is just a little corner in a Metropolis, bothering no one and accumulating books and news paper until one day the room itself is no longer supported by walls but by paper. And I still think that is the place that I would feel the most comfortable in. But sometimes I think about causing the most annoyance to people. Like jumping in front of a train while holding some one’s hand. Throwing up while eating at McDonald, openly boot up a windows notebook PC in a Mac store, and so on.
And sometimes I think that the place I’d feel the most comfortable is the backseat of somebody’s car, all drunk and oblivious.
Time doesn’t heal wounds, it only puts you farthest away possible from what happened that one day you just have to say to yourself guess I can’t do shit, guess I can’t fuck it up anymore let’s just go over there and start something new fucked up.
Like the time I saw my mother’s hand explode with such violence that remaining chunks of her fingers were wedged into the wooden walls like small nails driven in at by an inch. Time can only drag you away to a place so far away from that moment that what is left when all is done is just some shredded remembrance of what had happened. And maybe that is all for good. If you were to remember everything with the clarity of DVD say from the moment you were dragged out of the womb and took that first breath of air, by the way that first breath, some say that first breath remains in your lungs until you die, which makes you think what is inside of those lungs that were born in places polluted, where the chimneys spewed black clouds would contain, to the moment when you were taking that train back home, you would have no choice but to lock yourself in a black room lest you see what passes away out the window.
And as the sweat drips away from everyone’s body and drops onto the ground and evaporates into the air I wonder what that rain will taste like. People have been around long enough time, there has got to be some of those bodily salt floating in the air now. Salt and skin particles should be around us so much that a portion of sea should be salty because of our sweat and skin. Sewer should taste now like cum and rotten skin because of what we wash down the drain everyday. I wonder why sewer water doesn’t look white. I wonder why every rats living in the sewer don’t look like human by now they must have been soaked in that cum water for so long that their DNA should be altered by now. In fact I wonder why we don’t look like animals now because of all those animal semen that were secreted during intercourse and were dropped on to the ground, suck up into the core of the Earth and spewed out into the clouds via volcanoes and raining down on us. With all those animal facial cum shots we should be ground furs on our faces. Is 2 millenniums of animal sweat and cum not enough? How much longer are we going to have to secrete blood sweat cum skin spit loogie tears snot until we start comingling our genes?
And if there is a soul and if it should live forever, then all the crazy people in the world may just die insane and their ghosts will wander forever whispering insanity as night goes on and wear themselves thin in the summer expanding themselves in to the air and become one with the clouds and as the air blows through the window at night they will paste their insane whisper in to our ears.
It’s true that all can not exist. In fact I’d say that all that stands before me feels like just s shred of what once was, just like an afterimage after you stared at something for long enough. All that stands before me is just my dream. I am seeing a waking dream. When I sleep, that is when I am real, and what is real is chaotic, nonsensical, and absurd. I am standing on a field of neon green anemone, looking at the sea of giant kelp brown and shining like amber while a giant caterpillar swims through them with legs overgrown with feathers. I am looking at the trees with feathers white and green, shining bright like pearls and emeralds. I breathe water, and what I exhale robs me of what I am. I become transparent and weighs just as much. I just stand, I just look, I don’t even blink I just look Now I am standing in front of a giant wall the wall is huge and I see no end to it it surrounds me and as I push myself into it I sink and I fall. I see Zeus and he commands the thunder, he stands tall in front of me holding a sceptre pulsating like a penis and spewing out seawater from the tip he is creating the Earth as it spins he is recreating the Earth as it spins Atlas is showered in seawater and he stands the weight of the seawater he is covered in seawater his mouth quivers like a vagina as he drinks the seawater and so I am made again all is not the same and all will never be the same we will all change and I will change leaving behind the old crusty shitty self that I was rotting in the sun giving off stench of dying and screaming saying I dont want to change I dont want to change but I change because even standing the ground moves and the speed of of the movement will rob me of old cells and wind will shave away my skin until I am skin and bones and Zeus will spew his semen on me covering me until I am all flesh and blood again I am now new and reborn devoid of what I knew I crawl on all four dripping the cum on the floor at the ground moves like a giant caterpillar scaling up the wall with all of its legs like a room where the residents are taking up every perversity they can take on sex and incest and faggots free to stick their dicks where they want dicks licking up every pussy juice they drip from their cunts and I crawl on all four while I move abut in the city where they said that end is coming its coming im a coming im coming and everyone is fucking everyone is sucking and I am sucked as I fuck and I suck as they all fuck and buildings are covered in pink mucus as the sky rains flesh in droplets and the sun is an anus quivering and queefing and pieces of shit falls from its rim and everyone is busking in it and the ground fall and I cant feel anything because ground is moving and wind shaves away my old self and Zeus shouts something so that everyone knows that we are all reborn but we all sleep now covered in each other and we sleep.
Maybe whats needed is sleep. Sleep that sleeps in like water through every holes in your body watering the seeds of Earth in you and you grow the tree out of your belly plump and fat like a woman belly and tree grows out of you and you feel calm and underwater and tree grows out of you and you feel that the heart is beating to you, whispering its voice into you in beats and it tells you nothing but its beats tell you and you listen and you listen as the tree grows and flushes its green anemone leaves and sways itself gently in the water of you and your heart is closing your eyes and you feel yourself underwater and you sleep and your eyes close you feel the trees ripening a sack of child and child and child and child and your hands and feet grow roots and your a tree now and you sleep in the sea soaking seawater and you grow your roots in the mud of the sea you now know that you are sleeping and awake and you want to be connected with everyone you want to feel everyone but you are not everyone around is.
And this is the ground which I walk on, now covered with concrete what once was raw pink like a fresh cut thighs of a flushed lover covered in the humid pink mist which used to make me dizzy and blind intoxicated with milk of mother and sweats on thighs so ample and soft suck out the juice and sleep on the soft flesh until you had your fill and you wake up in a daze waking around again in the pink mist but now it is covered with concrete and trees are jammed in all the wrong way link a plug filled in to make the green stop and have no place to go but down and they spread the roots and grow pale and they spread until the ground is all filled up with tree roots white and gnarly like the fingers of a dirty old man stretching his finger all over the skin of moist brown until all will be never well covering the Earth with fucking concrete.
-Ancient ghost wanting some one’s body because he/she has not the chance to truly live. Being annoyed by the constant whisper of “please let me live. you lived long enough, let me live.” Sometimes succumbing to the whisper and it takes over.
