She was naked when she described everything, so I when I got home, I peeled off the layers and felt the need to document that. The mirror tweaked what it was I thought I initially externalized though. I always find my face something reminiscent of the man that lives on the farm. The farm is a fake one, but there’s corn fields circling it that hide this. His children speak dragon. “I woke up to the sound of people banging at my front door. There were multiple men, each with meaty hands, and a mouth willing to scream. There was some sort of crisis that had been biting them in the ass, and my tired body wasn’t responding. On the way downstairs, I noticed Denise laying on the floor of the bathroom, with a hand that had blood gushing out of it. I didn’t think to inquire anything of her though. It’s typical not to ask questions here. If you do, everyone wants an open can of sardines, and they better taste fuckin’ salty.” The last time we talked to each other on the phone, I had just lost my virginity and was sitting in a bed alone, without any sort of identity to speak of. She knew that I was blind and patterned my inability to be anything more than silent, with a soft soothing voice that just spoke in riddle. Her idea of good news, sounded to me very bad. She used drug language, as if it was a sort of directional on how to be brave and experimental. Where art once plugged magic, there was now the delinquent tendency to drink alcohol and describe the way it erased problems and let you just disappear. She whispered rather poetic, “I don’t feel anything anymore, baby.” It came out in a toxic hiss. Words had been written since then, but no sense of truth was articulated. Ideas hinted at current situations, but there was the odd sense of location. “I just moved to New York”, was met with “I got fucked over in Las Vegas, and now I’m on a greyhound headed to Phoenix.” It was all a large game of luck. Diane had been involved in some kind of violent act and the men wanted her caged up because of it. “What’s her name?”, a guy screamed. Heather didn’t know Diane enough to answer most of their questions. She was a friend of a friend. Panicked, she asked them repeatedly to “Just get the fuck out.” They consented and did. Two days later, a police officer came back to investigate. She was in mid-ecstasy. She said this matter of fact too. “I was masturbating, dude. I was in bed, in my slutty tank top and undies, FUCKING MASTURBATING.” She described the conversation she had with the police officer, as if it was something that didn’t really happen. It was all a dream for her, it was all a distant vacuum of static. It was all discombobulated and strangled and weak. The officer found marijuana and other drugs. It’s something that made her laugh. Her only commentary was: “Do you know how much that bong he confiscated cost me? Oh, good lord. Where am I going to find another one?” The redemption came when she explained the jail cell.  “I now know why they take away your belt and shoe laces and stuff. I was in there for a day and I was already losing my mind. Honestly, that’d be the first thing I’d try. Life just loses its zest, man. A soft lay down, would taste great.” She described a guy in a red jumpsuit laying in a puddle of his own piss too. “You could feel the suffering in there”, she said. “It was something that crawled in the skin and got you infested with self-doubt. I felt like a dog.” Her parents ended up bailing her out, but she couldn’t remember their phone number at first. “After I went to court, I was pacing back and forth and ended up making a list of how life could be worse. It was just sad.” Before we ended our conversation, she left me with one last detail that remained stale and grotesque. “Oh, and yeah. They wouldn’t give us water. They kept giving us this orange juice that’s distributed by Shamrock Farms or something. Fuck, it’s not even juice really. It’s this strange chemical junk. You get that and milk. I’m going to have the taste in my mouth, forever.” Click for high-res image

She was naked when she described everything, so I when I got home, I peeled off the layers and felt the need to document that. The mirror tweaked what it was I thought I initially externalized though. I always find my face something reminiscent of the man that lives on the farm. The farm is a fake one, but there’s corn fields circling it that hide this. His children speak dragon.

“I woke up to the sound of people banging at my front door. There were multiple men, each with meaty hands, and a mouth willing to scream. There was some sort of crisis that had been biting them in the ass, and my tired body wasn’t responding. On the way downstairs, I noticed Denise laying on the floor of the bathroom, with a hand that had blood gushing out of it. I didn’t think to inquire anything of her though. It’s typical not to ask questions here. If you do, everyone wants an open can of sardines, and they better taste fuckin’ salty.”

The last time we talked to each other on the phone, I had just lost my virginity and was sitting in a bed alone, without any sort of identity to speak of. She knew that I was blind and patterned my inability to be anything more than silent, with a soft soothing voice that just spoke in riddle. Her idea of good news, sounded to me very bad. She used drug language, as if it was a sort of directional on how to be brave and experimental. Where art once plugged magic, there was now the delinquent tendency to drink alcohol and describe the way it erased problems and let you just disappear. She whispered rather poetic, “I don’t feel anything anymore, baby.” It came out in a toxic hiss.

Words had been written since then, but no sense of truth was articulated. Ideas hinted at current situations, but there was the odd sense of location. “I just moved to New York”, was met with “I got fucked over in Las Vegas, and now I’m on a greyhound headed to Phoenix.” It was all a large game of luck.

Diane had been involved in some kind of violent act and the men wanted her caged up because of it. “What’s her name?”, a guy screamed. Heather didn’t know Diane enough to answer most of their questions. She was a friend of a friend. Panicked, she asked them repeatedly to “Just get the fuck out.”

They consented and did.

Two days later, a police officer came back to investigate. She was in mid-ecstasy. She said this matter of fact too. “I was masturbating, dude. I was in bed, in my slutty tank top and undies, FUCKING MASTURBATING.” She described the conversation she had with the police officer, as if it was something that didn’t really happen. It was all a dream for her, it was all a distant vacuum of static. It was all discombobulated and strangled and weak.

The officer found marijuana and other drugs. It’s something that made her laugh. Her only commentary was: “Do you know how much that bong he confiscated cost me? Oh, good lord. Where am I going to find another one?”

The redemption came when she explained the jail cell. 

“I now know why they take away your belt and shoe laces and stuff. I was in there for a day and I was already losing my mind. Honestly, that’d be the first thing I’d try. Life just loses its zest, man. A soft lay down, would taste great.”

She described a guy in a red jumpsuit laying in a puddle of his own piss too. “You could feel the suffering in there”, she said. “It was something that crawled in the skin and got you infested with self-doubt. I felt like a dog.”

Her parents ended up bailing her out, but she couldn’t remember their phone number at first. “After I went to court, I was pacing back and forth and ended up making a list of how life could be worse. It was just sad.”

Before we ended our conversation, she left me with one last detail that remained stale and grotesque. “Oh, and yeah. They wouldn’t give us water. They kept giving us this orange juice that’s distributed by Shamrock Farms or something. Fuck, it’s not even juice really. It’s this strange chemical junk. You get that and milk. I’m going to have the taste in my mouth, forever.”

Posted on November 15, 2011 at 12:50pm with 27 notes

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