Wednesday, March 21, 2012

And now, a word from our sponsors

I got on the train and sighed a contented sigh, watching the Astorian watershed move below me like pill bugs drowned in quicksilver, feeling the rhythm of the train on its thoughtfully meandering course.
But instead of admiration for the wonders of locomotion, the electric heartbeat of progress, the people all around me were tuned into some other atmospheric electrolysis--charged tentacles meshed into their ear holes and vining out to connect to the millienial pacemaker of humandom--musical phones.
In fifty years, when I am surely gone either by my own doing of insanity or murdered by a jealous lover, I will take solace in my absence that America, if she still exists then, will be a nation of morbidly obese deaf people. And I will not have to rue my bad fortune at being better to my body than my neighbor, who still is under the auspice that corn syrup Coke and Belvita breakfast bars aren't the problems, or something that he has bought into, but a fact of naturaldom. As if money wasn't once trees.
Am I better than him? No. Not at all. But do I despise him? Yes. If not for protecting the natural order, but not for want of protecting himself.
There is no circle of life anymore, just a giant mechanical cog that keeps getting greased and regreased. And soon, when the oil runs out, which it inevitably will despite what our inept leaders say after sludging mud from Canada to the Corpse of Christ, and all the water is polluted thus, only then will my deaf neighbors realize you can't water the money tree with soda. You can't speak of intention. You can't ignore absolution. You can't stay a creature of sublimation in ignorance.
Perhaps the train really only does go back and forth with the seiche of urbania, but it brings me to my destination somewhere in the middle. And I am aware and awake and alive the whole way.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

I find my afterlife partner

Recently I was at a get-together at a friend’s apartment, and I swear I saw something otherworldly out of the corner of my eye. It was brief, and less than definitive, but I saw it: a slightly transparent woman with black hair, dressed in white, and hovering just a few inches off the floor.
I did a double take, and true to the ephemeral laws that constitute her, she was gone before my eyes could again settle.
I spoke up.
“Dude, Randall, is your place haunted?” I asked my friend, not daring to look away from the shadowy, muted corner at the end of the hallway where the materialization had occurred.
“No.” He said flatly.
“I’m not usually a Ghost Buster, but I think I just saw one.”
“This place isn’t haunted.”
“Hm.” I thought for a moment. “Do you think it’s her first day?”
Randall looked at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I mean, everyone—or thing—has to have a first day at some point. Like, a house just can’t have always been haunted. Maybe it’s her first day of haunting us here."
“But why would she choose us? And an apartment? Nobody’s died here.”
I shrugged. “Why the hell not? I just hope she’s not nervous if it is her first day.”
Randall scoffed. “You’re feeling sympathy for a ghost whose probable intent is to terrify us? And more-so me, since it’s my apartment?”
“Well, it’s not like we can just ask her to leave. But maybe she’s nice, like Casper. We should give her the benefit of the doubt. It’s her first day.”
Randall didn’t say anything.
“Plus she was kinda hot. Sucks that she’s dead.”