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11 April 2016 @ 02:38 pm
outside, the machinery rolls, the machinery roars. the ground shakes, the walls rattle. it's in bursts, in rising waves. we're a metric, a bit of chaos just inside noise ordinances. it's not about the occasional spike, but the overall curve. just like my society to forgive an abrupt penetration but punish the subtle rise, the womanly curve. just like my society to let boys be boys with a shake of the head, with a fond little smile, while the girl shaking up some numbers is only condemned as a whore when she's not being mocked as a virgin. maybe you don't know what that's like. i sure the hell do.

our limbs rise above themselves. they take turns, they branch out, they extend themselves toward others. our bodies obey one another, whether through call and response or however we might respond to attraction: reciprocation, resonance, revulsion, indifference. where there was once a forest, now a white-streaked orange pit. where there was once nothing of note, and i mean the notable nothing, insects and grass, cathedral of thought, now: locking link fences and rambling machines.

i understand there is a purpose to everything they do. i appreciate they are building toward something and the nature of such a process is that it frequently looks like nothing is happening until, all at once, something has occurred. right now it just looks like annihilating our little back lot forest so noisy trucks can noisily shove around exposed earth. right now the entire purpose of the endeavor seems to be making a lot of noise around a big hole.

remember when they were not doing this? sometimes i wish i'd appreciated that time more. it was back in a time when the walls of my little apartment did not have quite so many hairline cracks radiating from every corner. it was a time when my mornings were largely filled with quiet birdsong, the pattering of light rain, the decimated vocalizations of our chain-smoking neighbors as they discussed among themselves weighty matters such as:
  • if there are enough sausages currently being microwaved,
  • if the president actually is a muslim, and
  • how they don't understand why their college-age niece keeps calling them racist.

  • it is a mystery, it is a mystery indeed. in the end it is always a mystery, in the end something is always a mystery, in the end there's always something you don't, won't, or cannot know; something that does not reveal itself, either at all or within your audible frequency range. in the end, it's always a mystery. the mystery of. the mystery why. how the mystery, what the mystery, who the mystery, who. we are all detectives with varying degrees of success in our detections. we are all always trying to figure something out, and we come to our mysteries in that specific way that only we can.

    what i'm saying is the things in our life we cannot understand are not remotely to scale with our capacity to understand them. however, the way those mysteries reveal themselves to us, the way they stick us, the places from which they draw blood, if they draw blood at all: all of this is infinitely demonstrative of the way our minds work.

    is our biggest mystery that the president is secretly a muslim using our hard-earned tax dollars to taint the water supply with autism? is our biggest mystery how the fruits and vegetables at the grocery store conspire to kill us in our sleep? be honest, now: is our biggest mystery how the government thinks poor people are better than you?

    my mystery remains:

    music: mirrorring - silent from above
    (Anonymous) on April 13th, 2016 10:43 pm (UTC)
    This is a sneaky little piece. I really like the two worlds operating simultaneously one recessing to allow the other to move up then back. Lot going on.
    You should be on the payroll of David Lynch with this piece.
    I'll take a 1/2 pint of the blood of the day if you see your endocrinologist
    selva oscura: blueglassanonymousblack on April 14th, 2016 12:51 pm (UTC)
    from 2009: in my dream, david lynch taught a class on non-linear narrative in disintegrating media. i was the only student with a solid attendance record. no one else could find the room.

    but i'd definitely rather be on his payroll. because then: pay.

    i got a weird letter from my insurance provider re: we're not gonna pay for this blood work. i never got results back from said blood work, and i'm starting to think it might be going the way of blood that's been abandoned to cold storage for a month and i'll need to go get stuck again. endo FINALLY got back to me this morning and is now looking at the weird letter, so i have hope that my conspiracy theories haven't become my new reality, at least.

    man, if blood of the day is becoming the new normal i need to work on my iron...
    (Anonymous) on April 14th, 2016 11:10 pm (UTC)
    I get stuck a lot myself because the doctor is worried the meds will eat my liver, not that there is much left, but I kid the girl that draws my blood about if they are only interested in my liver enzymes then what happens to the gift of life that goes wasted... or does it?
    Sounds like a David Lynch script to me.

    I give the punch line to the David Lynch dream 2 rimshots and a hoochie coochie hip shake. You funny girl
    selva oscura: it's very pinkanonymousblack on April 15th, 2016 01:19 am (UTC)
    that seriously was the dream, is the thing! sometimes my subconscious just blows my mind like that.

    don't you dare go letting those meds eat your liver! there was a show called DOLLHOUSE in 2009ish where the lead character turned out to have an incredibly rare enzyme in her blood that made her resistant to a mind wipe procedure developed for nefarious purposes by an international pharmaceutical company. i assume it was initially harvested from a blood sample that came through their labs. this situation did not really go well for her. been thinking about that a lot, the last few days...