Thursday, May 16, 2013 4:56:46 PM
It is time to think about how you really feel, how you refuse to admit into clinical observation of your own self, a standalone, standaside, stepping stone’s throw from obsolescence of indifference, your aloof philanderings nowhere near as magnificent as you think, not deserving of unspoken croons from reversible rooms of your partner’s youth. You admit to this or that as selectively as lions chase their prey, loitering around hungry prisons from which those you rejected were released almost immediately. Smiles and faces suffer for your attention through a thirst for conflict, a gluttony for pain and a researcher’s meticulous search for sadness. Tribes of plightless refugees shuffle past your window, echoing stray attempts at reaching you, unwittingly infiltrating your quietudes and self-searchings with verbal and paranoid detritus of sound and stridence. These are the folksongs of your solitude: the slamming of neighbors’ doors, the sounds of fistfights outside, the groans of sex and anger from a downstairs apartment, the sounds of mailboxes shutting and of neighbors performing conspiratorial violences on their floors. The scope of misunderstanding is never as broad as you imagined. The opaqueness of reality is not so deep beneath its hardened façades until absurdities uncovered by devouring analysis leave you wanting more, more contravariable cloudiness and wintry weather in July, more handwritten scraps of newspaper stuffed into hoary library volumes, more inaudible sounds risen up from century-old recording media, more circumstances which politicians and plutocrats cannot control. You converge upon weakened resolves, lobbing lofty pomposities into targeted conversations, obviousnesses so clear as to invite accusations of ambiguousness, like the punchline zingers you dump onto arguments and situations, anecdotes and catchphrases blustered about in languages you do not speak, using words which no one understands. Carry it home, though. Carry it back to homicides and mysteries, the drownings at the lake, the unicorn sacrifices and waterless brains growing into forests of seaweed. “Really,” you suggest, “there should be limited access to the successes of others. We used to carry on like bandits, pulling good times and friendship from suns and moons and spreading the love like floodwaters of blood under trenchant armies. But only we knew the stories, only we knew what happened in our thickness of redemption.” No one assails your observations as drawstrings pull shut their mouths, each orifice individually sealed by you as you step from one to the other, covering first then clasping shut the loathsome backwash of commentary and haptic anger. The crowds keep coming, though, and your only redemption is underneath your skull, scampering about watery mysteries of a brain photographed and catalogued slice by perfect slice but still impenetrable as the dance movements of a legless contortionist. I cannot stand the soundings of starvation, the deepening ignorance of unfavorite furniture left damaged but salvageable by hurricanes and conversations that stunned an army’s ammunition into hurling itself weaponlessly across television screens and computer networks, blasting across themselves with craven generosity appreciated by bottomfeeders and cataloguers on their way to architecting cacophonously phony realities that epically drown in their enclosures.