ghosts - falling

i.

tall buildings butt against each other and form viaducts through which the wind may quickly pass. this naturally occurring phenomenon affects people in many ways. for instance, people walking among these conduits must speak louder one another while trapt in its confines. the claustrophobic rooms we call streets are outside but far from open, creating a stifling ground-level sewer upon which pedestrians, pigeons, automobiles, and lesser vermin flourish. the subways, sewer systems, and other networks of underground tunnels beneath their feet give a certain sense that we are not, in fact, on planet earth, but, instead, somewhere above it (not quite figuritively, though some naysayers would disagree.)

ii.

chicago. again. longest three weeks of my life, largely unemployed. boredom, spending money. living in a world of fractions, careful not to spend all my money, only fractions of a small wealth. always spending, always eating.

matching descriptors for the alone: full. fullness. no hope. a consummation of greed. too many strangers. always tired and stressed. the damn need to work a whole lot more. eccentricities welling up underneath the pores. no small talk, no epics, either. maligned disinterested, shifting blame for shortcomings. vegetation growing from face and head, shaven clean daily (with razor, standing naked in the bathroom - the stillness of an empty house, no perpetrators, no more disruption).

hollowed out, no ambition: grottoes carved into old, mossy tree stumps. pigeons flocking toward garbage in frenzy. people watching pigeons while waiting for their crosswalk to open. a single lady, yelling hold that bus! as she runs, struggling with a heavy bag and middle age. a bald man helping a single mother carry her child's stroller up a flight of stairs. wondering when the day will come when a stranger will help me.

iii.

i bought new shoes yesterday.
i probably shouldn't have.
i handed the salesman my credit card -
nervously wondering if i would be declined -
he was just smiling.

iv.


a complimentary propaganda matchbook handed out at a corner store with the purchase of filtered cigarettes during the last two decades of the doomed United States empire (Chicago, Illinois, August 2006).

v.


a rare "freedom fry," excavated from dig site 2022 last month. amazing a dead relic could have lasted this long in such pristine condition. verily, our ancestors possessed remarkable embalming fluids and unique preservation techniques.

it all began the day i decided to become famous

and nothing happened. but i decided i should be somebody or something get this mucus menstruating from my lungs out of my chest and into the palm of my hand, throw my fame around like fecal monkeys caged up in a zoo. and i waited. soon herein, i procured my favourite record collection and began to recite all the lyrics from the top of my head, putting heavy emphasis on the so-called high points that i felt represented not only the essence of the song, but my situation and my own beliefs about heartache, phallic misrepresentation, the unnerving dream / germ, and every other tired minstrel barely glowing now, a light that is near exhaustion: a bunch of hydrogen gas in space continually blowing up for thousands of years until there is no more, only ether will or will not determine. standing at the edge of the driveway looking back at the house wondering if i'd ever see it again. stumbling through every socially awkward situation a bit shyer than i was before. justifying my social inepitude too many pathetic ways. i was tired, the conversation wasn't interesting, i didn't know them and they didn't know me and from my general gist of the conversation just before i began to daydream they weren't so much talking about anything important, instead merely joking about things like private parts and famous singers in brief jaunts that went nowhere. not talking because i was distracted or i wasn't listening or because she was talking about a place somewhere i've only heard about in books and television, and i didn't want to seem juvenile so i shut up and looked around the room blankly; always the last in the group to answer a question directed toward everyone. no longer becoming myself when talking to more than one person at a time, becoming some dumb actor because i can only recognize one person's reaction at a time. finally achieving some solution and speaking loudly about it to deaf ears that only listen to themselves thinking of ways to steal limelight. patience. lots of patience needed here. milking a cow for viscous honey, frustrated.

i am a computer baby.

goddamnit.

i remember writing i was holding a pen strong enough to break the roman phallus.

i am a failure. 2000 years of human history since the so called savior and now we've had computers readily accessible for the mundane employee for the past fifteen years and now here i am. i remember seeing myself as a child, hunched over a pile of plastic, looking for the right piece, or sitting at a computer, making greeting cards for my grandparents because i thought colored pencils turned out shitty (because i just wasn't good enough). lately i have been equally hunched over: my back.

a very bad posture.

no more disillusionment. i am failure with good, breathing ideas based on things like life and embarrassement, and humility, and organics in the face of impermenance. to have a good idea is to have a good idea. to be so called successful is to have an idea, not good or bad, and being capable of capitalize on it. instead, i'm in a city bigger than my ego, stuck in traffic jams i have no control over. i wanted to make a great film but i don't have the time but i should have the time after all I'm UNEMPLOYED. and breaking.


...
i'm going to make a series of these every morning, and work on an animation about a guy that almost dies and goes home to have sex with his wife, despite epiphany.