It ain't all Shakespeare
It really ain't.
Half-truths and poor grammar are the sauce of expression, that the lower classes(like myself) have learned to express themselves in more complicated utterances than grunts.
List, list, list!
I poured a dream into the ear of a dying man. His blood pooled where he lay. When they raised him up from his deathplace, he was frozen stiff, but not in rigor mortis, but stern rigid obstinance.
My heart burns there, too. But would I say? For to say aloud is to tempt the forces of the natural, to put your own wants into the ether, where they will be acted upon immediately, but the question, does that hasten destruction? Does that alter the beauty of that distant star?
Have I lost my mind entirely?
It is 2016 and there is time for being esoteric.
the truth was what you wanted? really?
For years, and under some strain of an unspecified type, my friend said things about 9/11.
And what could I say in response?
Did he want the truth? Or did he want something to believe? I prefer the latter. But I could have said things. I didn't. I mean, why?
"My own open nudity gives me wood." It's glorious and infantile, to stand naked, raise your arms in the air in PURE GLEE!!!!
See how I changed the subject? Did he ever get the truth? No. He gave up. Oddly enough, he stopped talking about it when I felt like telling what I knew about it(which isn't much, anyhow). But really.
He thought George Bush did it. He had no evidence. Just a mistrust of the government. Couldn't believe that big heavy building found the shortest path down, gravity-wise.
The shortest path down. Thought the big heavy building should have some kind of nudge to the side which would make it topple and then lay down, as if to sleep.
But people had questions. They seemed to just create their own answers, too.
I was once given a creepy cryptic 9/11 reference by a Wallsmark employee. I thought that guy needed to die for that. I copied it for a story I was writing, and applied it to a lawnmower instead of a man. I thought the reference was rather obvious.
But I'm crazy.
She walked side by side with Him, across the back of the property.
They came to a corner, having traversed in a blissful silence, the whole of the owned acreage.
"Phillip and I liked this place" she said, pointing out a corner with an indentation, like where a dog might be fond of laying.
Who is Phillip? He thought. Is she a free woman now?
She led him to the little indentation and they sat on the ground, as if they were young again, cross-legged and smiling.
"Little Sweet had a list of the most popular singers through the years" she said. "Like Etta James." She smiled of course as she spoke these words, but the smile took on a quizzical feel.
"At Last" he sang lightly. "My love has come around."
She wouldn't look at him, but at once she leaned over and kissed the tops of his resting hands.
And in dreamtime, it is not the heart that speaks, but the intellect, and though it is often blaring echoes of anxieties, sometimes a dream is something wholly different.
a man is greater than the sum of his parts
as scrap, the body is not worth much. legally.
But we have, within all that rotting meat, a certain random capacity to think large thoughts which goes beyond eat, sleep, poop, and sex.
But a man must have his priorities. So I can sit half-asleep on the toilet, a sandwich hanging out of my mouth and a woman giving me a lap dance. Like sleeping through a hurricane.
That man can sleep through anything. You're missing a hell of a sammich. Average lap dance, but a good sandwich.
There is a nugget in the mire of our self-centered thoughts, and the conundrum is that the love of self is connected to water(i don't quite grasp this), but yet water and light, particularly the sun and the reflective impassive ocean, represents thoughts that float by, with the sun the faculty and the ocean or waters the product.
Reflective and passive. Then you know Alex?(kidding)
The great Jean-Luc Picard argued for the human race, with its random capability for growth and change, and yet to be violently tugged back down by base needs. But yet for a few moments or hours or just seconds, we can transcend the soil from whence we came.
the doctor of film, mulling
Uwe is talking, decoding, deconstructing, analyzing, placing into context, decodifying and classifying, qualifying.
It all looks like random footage of Uwe shooting zombies.
But he sees into it, has established a cadence and a working rhythm, making nuances like a symphony of violence.
He is in the same room with Wusso's 16 mil flatbed editing station, but he is working on a chinese computer with two large monitors, lights blaring out in the gloom and fans blowing. It is like a monster truck of computers.
He comes to the footage of Kristina Lokken going over the side of the truck bed. He freezes the footage with her feet in the air and the zombies closing in.
From behind him, Zombie Wusso growls hungrily. Uwe doesn't notice because this is the magic of directing, the magic of making film: realizing a vision, capturing a dream or nightmare, and here he has done that.
Uwe looks down at his phone. Phone service has become unusually spotty and haphazard since the zombie epidemic hit North America. He navigates to the contacts menu and erases the entry for Kristina Lokken.
On the screen: the red open-toe high-heels are pitched high in the air.