jes5199: (Default)
my brain has been doing strange things this last week
but rather than delving into my navel,
how about a recapitulation of nighttime narratives for your cloudless tuesday?
five )
jes5199: (Default)
i left the party and went to the bar and asked for a Pabst Blue Ribbon
but they gave me vanilla ice cream instead
(which is in some way the same concept, and in some other way much nicer)


Dec. 1st, 2005 09:01 am
jes5199: (Default)
Deacons with syringes
jes5199: (Default)
Memory Room
First, our point of view is pulling backwards through a series of interconnected rooms
A young blond boy eyes huge, bewildered.
A teenager, strong physical resemblance to the boy says "Wow, this must have been the first thing I recorded-"
An old man with gray hair (Zareh?) interrupts "this place is confusing enough without adding any more circular logic"
As we pass through the doorway into the next room, we find that this place is filled with different instances of the same person, like moving snapshots of a man at every age of his life, but the ten-year-old, the young teenager, and the gray-haired ones are more common.
One largish room is packed, shoulder to shoulder, with the teenager, each one holding a pornographic magazine or an old Playboy. A youth looks in, seems embarrassed. "Don't worry, if you can't trust yourself, who can you trust?" one of the old men asks.
Suddenly it is clear that only one of these men is *now*, he's in his twenties, same distinctive sandy blond hair, a look in his eye like he's about to ask a question, like he's searching for something.

The Cheshire Man
Our point of view floats through a fantasy of what a high-school building might look like if it was an infinite maze of rooms, with spiral staircases gathering dust. This place is abandoned.
A series of cages hangs from the ceiling, they are shaped like Chinese lanterns, but seem to be made out of metal that was once part of the lockers. A man, his skin like nighttime, wearing a suit like pitch, and a matching top hat, appears in the highest cage. He is standing in front of himself.
"I am definitely" starts the man in the back, leaning against the left wall.
"A dead man" finishes the man in front, who is crouched over, his arms pushing against the opposite wall. His motions are fluid, like a stage performer. He draws himself up straight and almost perfect eclipses the view of his other self.
As our view follows to the next lower cage, we see that he- both of him- are now there, instead.
"Which is really the only way"
"I could be here at all"
The third cage approaches, it's nearly at ground level.
"Because this is"
"Completely impossible"
Now he's - only one man visible - on the grand staircase, it flows like a river down from darkness and disappears down into the unknown. In his right hand, a cane with an ivory carving of a skull on the tip; he holds it like a old fashioned circus conductor. As he steps down, he places his left hand on the banister, but he doesn't lift it up again. As he passes, every foot of the banister is still being gripped with a left hand, hundreds of them, all the way up the stairs.

Psychic Race
They say that she is visiting from Canada, but she is dressed like a Hindu maiden, and she speaks with an accent. We say that we are not following them, that we simply happen to be crossing the same desert waste, that we are simply on our way to Disney Land. Adam doesn't seem to recognize me, and he's changed too, his hair is cropped right at his skull, but he's starting to grow a beard.
We follow them to the rich man's house. Running through, the rooms are like a maze. Someone has set it all on fire.
The rich man is watching us. He seems to be everywhere! Frantic.
"Where have they taken her?" I shout.
"The false Canadian! The psychic! Where is she?"

March 2016

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