Thursday, 26 February 2009
Step out of the shower and into your yellow pantyhose. Greet the world with an optimistic grin as you slip into your singlet. Crawl into your happy place and meet and greet the children. Wiggle your briary-ère as you dance their favourite songs. For you truly are an icon, a living breathing hero, and anyone who disagrees is just a jealous, arrogant asshole. The kids all love you as you hand them their fructose infused tetra-briks and tell them to run along, a symphony of popping greets you when they’re done. It’s your song, being sung just for you. And when you die they’ll bury you, inside that pineapple suit. Amongst the sounds of a 21 popper salute, below a tombstone that reads INRI, because just like in Mark 15:26, you truly are the King of the Juice.
My tummy was grumbling again. I called it the angry old man, a suitable name for something full of aches and pains and non-stop complaining. All it wants is food, but desire for food is a sickness. The need for material things is the path to ruin, and so I wait, my mind pushing to ignore the pain, until it stops and gives me some quiet. I remember the days when my grandfather would talk and I would turn up the television to drown him out, ignoring his advice or current consternation. Nowadays I can’t even remember the sound of his voice. I’m hoping the same thing applies to stomachs.
So I was sitting there, on the ugly rug, swaddled in a blueish TV screen complexion, watching an episode of
Creek and feeling rather embarrassed by it. When all of a sudden I came to a
realization. One of those shining moments of lucid reality, as if my brain had
become a balloon and had just received a pin prick. I could see now that I had
been losing my memory for years, and far from something awful, it was clearly
the greatest thing that could ever happen. Uncontrollable joy erupted inside
me, and what could I do but share my happiness. I dropped the remote and ran to
the window, flicking the curtain cord until the slats parted. Hands in the air
I whooped triumphantly at the passer-bys, in all my naked glory.
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
I heard them call us frontline troops, and I suppose that now we were. The previous generation lay out there already, amongst the meadows, tickling the flower roots and making them grow taller. We’re next, the recently orphaned, the regretfully elderly. We forge on, out of the bunkers and into the meadow, as the guns of time crack against our old bones. Together we advance, marching toward the blackening horizon, acting like we had a choice.
Until you've built up enough atoms to fleetingly call your own, to claim ownership over, for the few split seconds of your life in the face of the timeless universe. Until you've had children and continued the inherently doomed chemical reaction that began with just one cell. Until you've almost let yourself believe your life had a purpose, a drive, a tangible mark on the history of the planet. Until your back aches and the feelings of remorse are finally washed away by the creeping onset of Alzheimer’s. Until the heart that once loved so strongly, finally weakens and gives out. Until the brain that once held every precious memory finally dies and fades to black. Until the worms desecrate you. Until you turn to dust and scatter throughout the universe. That’s how long I’ll love you.
Monday, 23 February 2009
I lurk about the local hairdressers, waiting for the smell to hit my nostrils. The wet, freshly-cut-hair smell that wafts from the tiled floor as the door swings open and closed. The bin out the back, a giant green vault of hairy gold, constantly refilled. My toes like it best, as the hairs prickle between them, giving me shivers. Sometimes I sleep in there, under a blanket of hairs, waiting for the shop girl to lift the lid and throw more over me in a rain of deviant delight. She used to get startled to see me and ring the police, but now she doesn’t mind. I think her name is Sullivan and she doesn’t know it yet, but I’m in love with her. She has very distinct hair. I can find it anywhere in here, needles amongst the hairstack, and nibble it as delicately as it deserves.