Price On Life
Aligned, synchronized, autonomy in subdivision suburban somewhere, placement inside this subcity, with an impact. “Makes you dream art and museummm cultural whatnots…. but in every attempt, we will always not have enough; to live inside of… Every powerful movement of the provincial day before us; somewhere in the mindset yet,” Holt’s bubbled skin surfaces, “won’t ever be enough; but there’s no heading back to what once was. And We’re going to make it and everything anyway we can anyway. We are going to put forth thee effort. So…c’mon, it’s awesome when you take off.”
We were solace with Kalifornia credits, with the all old knowledge in the way; and so pondered for more legends than myths we are already being compared to - something like this? --------- his fresh shaved head turned from Brilliant Fiction to me refracted, too pinching, wasted and slipped a little in these shakes right there, tremors or fidgets, low blood sugar nerves of some unnatural surrealism and anyway all masqueraded in a kind of sideswipe manner relapsed from some presence of the book Holt held up, out, the way one hand displays story-time to kindergarteners but leaving the cover towards us; mine wavering soul going simultaneously imploring the inverted opening
--the phenomenal Holt sprung off this mashed couch to sit upright, swiped a cigarette flip-box confound by theory and thin air, and rolled over for an answer, from him; and yet from myself, “sooo..wwwhatever yu-ha whatter weee gonna do then about this Sahn Diego mmopportunity?” released a stringing along of words kind of coyly; yet, he went akimbo in front of the stereo -cabinet –pupop! glass door drifting… and reached in/slid heavy flapping CD case to leaf, to persuade in the collided quiet galaxies mesmerizing reflectively. Seinfeld blipped right silent [on mute] in that same instance and pretended nothing and my admiration was something really celestial as I slouched, indolent, curious as though something sacred was upon us, after he went, “weeee need some music to break the hmmmediate silences and despair of the commonplace subcity which engrosses. We need ummmm—inspiration.”
And at last settle upon the fact that maybe a red hat among other metaphors is just a red hat; that it doesn’t matter until the red hat is in words that it must become too much more; it only matters while in picture/image/painting –otherwise it is just a red hat.
Sebastian giggled. Kids in the Hall muted up in the Picture-In-Picture. And maybe Nik’s silky black hair had grown out to his jaw, so he just perturbed over at Holt; and some dork named Ed Speices sprawled dry-dead asleep on the unraveled loveseat; and this slight humidity of snow stirred from dark evening in flakes aching the most nauseating heart stared into me into that television, into The awesome faded. . . .red hat.
That I may ever conserve the flapped hysteria multiplying inside myself beneath mine which went further from the complexity it retained; imagine a thyroid swelled in that only thing which hardly remained; quick-connect the brain to spine like a wiring harness for a car stereo. That is where I assumed in an imperfect (: affecting THIS stare and sight—the reason I wore it backwards that is; the inescapable red hat—whack slapped on me would transform. As if that purpling dirty-white St. Louis symbol. I immediately threw on, the thing backwards with perfect ( cupping my long curls without adjusting—just beneath the surface; for just a mere minute, marveled with great big moonlight eyeballs that I was him. That I would be no longer fucked up.
Then plopped over to the mashed couch with thee old bright halo of mine incredibly flawless around his tightblues (: and celebrating that which forever lies ahead of us, the mmmfEEl-good story, wound into like the upset, the triumph. Storm the courts victorious. Thus squinted, wonder simultaneously like the moon stood vice versa with the earth… Wee glanced at each other with a ‘you have that feeling of some incapable translation unto the written atmosphere?’ enlightening magically, or with superpowers, ambitious, hey, hey hey, clearly and fully sharpened, damn fresh; lugubriously pounded away in the nights’ gone hollow swallows, “Hey!” which Nik throttled, “you ridiculous fucking drunks” with a good chuckle, “I gotta get my camera, this is a lot more fucking hilarious and entertaining then you dorks realize.” So Holt retorted, “yeah but it’s staged, man.” . . . .
No one else in this young far-fetched world ever inculcated being someone else, flickering busrides out rolling windows and down long walks to the playgrounds, than perhaps Nik -who had the familiarity; and with such new-fangled world changing, rapidly blend like fiberoptic mesmerizing, he moved deeper monumental elevations; yet intellect and in some incredibleness released like some speed of light chorus we didn’t recognize, and burst exploding in the lenses, gratified at the satiation of the longed daydream, indulgence…. Nik placed within between them reflected flickers from bus windowed magnificence... like from the underground; in sagged tragic, criss-crossed moiling of circulating electricity,,,,, wired subcity sagged streets, affixed upon the two of us replacing each other that only they could see.
Nik; instrumental Sebastian, Ed or Andy; was Andy there? No. Andy was in Montana -- which I come to understand, in their presence, that, instrumentally, filmed these folks into ghosts. With great inexplicable compassion, inside, he showed these guys mimicking unnatural characteristics instantly, got them into deep held eyes open with ( and thus my brrrains in a whole new mad collision tried escaping the image he took; that Holt and I failed to see just looking at each other. And so on and so forth dip in the stream as if some mention; fail to avoid being left out, in reinventions of them, from beyond HERE; while possibly, these recreated dialogues and lines repeated in such humor, regenerated the moment initially watching near entire scenes reenacted; meaning, the precedent, the insanities of hearing minds become the extensions of playful souls being eternally, but much rearranged in an incomplete profound variation of oneself; turned over levels exclusively hinted to the lost thoughts registering or regressing, wormed-through-and breathed into thin air, from another person who was you. Dragged from that television loosening, like that the sound flew on the various wrestling Nik held as he filmed from the camera, the extra sounds and breathing of home videoing, adjustings and whatnot and so on, slotted into each grip conquering the once limitless hints and clues discerned from huhuhu the red that transformed our own configurations here. And we just performed minor things but could not tell until we watched it on the television ourselves.
My finagled fuddles with fruition but sub-spaced between quotes I had snuck off the radio or from liner notes; fiction placed in reveals such few words as the B side of a grey-clear Hysteria stretched out on the walls in the best possible way I could explain or capture the feeling, but never pulled myself to scribble just one, struggled to eliminate in the minor availability that remained impossible at times. We were listening to Depeche Mode’s Dreaming of Me later on, so maybe that is a good one to use at this moment. Anyways, after weaving from the daydreamed —nerves killed asleep in the littered place—since Holt decided to brave the streets and get beers at 7-11, where they never checked his ID; and poor far-gone Holt Donegal in fluke affirmations of his ambiguous mind was denied completely forgetting that he needed mine, expelled in the cure-all searches, for the grippe-clutch immolating sensations, that would eliminate the chronic perception of thinking one is dying; because I like had this heart hooked depression, despondent for the synthesizer, longing the child in me as if forever trapped in the 80s, never thriving, but those electronic keyboard sieves for a fabulous touch, ever interpret whirs of the bigger intervals of warm squirming in constant urine feeling, constantly pressed hard down as trickles throughout this awkward cardboard reaches to hold for just a bit [considering lethargy] --a garbling like 12 year old Holt sort of shriveled tiny, into smithereens remaining therein in the realm ----about awful, circumstantially audible with sublime within, gone into that horizon so fungus-poofy around the world, squirming almost frustrating deeper and deeper with a leaky pelvis; as he newly embraces, enlightened within some degree of just how huge and so brand new this ancient feeling takes over since Holt unbearably went, “It’s hard to just hold..”—
Compact thoughts that chikuckch unrecording wind onward automatically high-tech with spirits about the two-dimensional dreams and fades kind of inserted as stubs of cassettes broke loose, capture the radio, record over say a cream colored tape, say Bon Jovi New Jersey, record within the basement walls and go in behind video game counsels wired into three or four televisions ready by a few switches, chinkeyed jovial so intense and kindred and too occupied folks, nuts! and there’s Holt feeling there’s no way for me to write as such, like that, the way he drew the way I was alive just personally, and in every way he pictured had 10,000 stories, but since it may warrant just the gist of the story; my life is such converting and has always been meant to touch the two worlds collided, shaped the gridwork of such confusing Brutalist Architecture -because this is the novel and so represents itself in covetous times with some curved sharp sword just a picture a visual an image Sebastian drolls away with his cheeks full of his tongue, his whole face and sound effected like the thing comes to life. Just a picture. That’s all that I want to make without theme or argument, just another world. I can’t get out of here without.
Explaining everything or expecting it to be like that anyway, the wrong lines stand out more and uselessly converse ‘allthatnoiseandallthatsound’ the red hat which make your throat lump; feens lucid rocks, cramps, burns, jellyleg floppy sensations cozy, fuzzy eye-balled doom, tingles first with anxiety, transitions more good than either ends before or after, pills stomach floaties, convert cigarettes to ash instantly; the rock n’ roll gobbled conceding lonely interest –crazy- and the utmost difficulty concentrates finally, featuring the main veins here that crowd away the personality so we all share the chills on some same level blown wide open with drags and music and words and people I don’t want to be too extravagant or exaggerate the inability, but picture Holt. And he’s home, but Holt…he's UN-comfortable. He _ that! that was me!!