I hung the rip-out juror badge they sent me as part of the jury duty letter with some scotch on the dick of my
jeans and went in.
He scanned me and said in a far-too-humanely voice for security at a courthouse
Security: “Good place to put it.”
I gathered by his tone that something was off, and then I heard the echoing UnDeRtone.
All words grouping together in a slimey way. Anyone knowing he wanted to say it louder but
didn’t. Seemingly already knowing the almost-definite likeliness of a sweeping retort.
Scared and way to used to being fucked in the ass by what one says. It’s a killer, and the
reason you’re life is a turd son.
Me: “The time you guys made me get up, it’s the only place to stick it.”
I intercepted and caught a quick defensive glance and everything returned to normal on his part.
The Inner Shit Security Mindset: “Fuck, you’re right, I am a piece of shit, I’ll back off now”
I imagined behing said by that primitive instinct in his head. The one that somehow got him to consider, with full seriousness, a career in Courthouse security.
Some people say you’re a sheep and other say that the system is constantly fucking you in the ass.
I like to think that people like Him are sheeps getting fucked in the ass. A sad combination of both.
Just enough gullibility (sheeps) to let them fuck you in the ass on an oh so consistent basis.
It was an even jollier time from that point on.
What if I told you there was a work of art that dealt with life, God, death, perception of reality, the beginning, the end and the highest turning point possible for a human and that it would undoubtedly shake your very understanding of these things?
Thank goodness it’s a movie, I’ve always been one to believe the longer you are able to spend with a work of art the more it has to teach you. This is why I prefer literature and cinematography over painting and sculpting. Architecture can go play with itself because at the moment I can’t think where to classify it in my simplistic rhetorique of how long an art form has with you.
Enough suspense already, It is called “The Truman Show”, and it’s a satirical psychological drama starring Jim Carrey quite a while before everyone began huffing their lungs out about how good Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind is.
I feel a little like I’m in that movie sometimes, when I predict the actions and fluid motions of a person I don’t know to the grainy final detail. That day I was sitting in one of those lines of cars that aren’t moving despite a green light because there isn’t anywhere to go. A tiny girl was behind me in an Acura SUV. She had light brownish hair, perfectly round big eyes, and a gorgeously minimal curve on her perfect model of a nose. She was messing with something in her lap and I had an arm of length between me and the car in front of me so I let go of the break slightly while looking in the rear-view mirror. I knew she would look up. I got straight contact with those eyes for something like half a second. Focusing back on the road, I smirked. I just like messing with you beautiful, I said under my breath.
This sums me up in an instance. Not; that I like messing with people, but that society’s patterns and the definitive predictable actions of individuals fascinate me.
My childhood years I had a number of people enter my life. Most were too old to survive to this day it appears.
I had my Mom, who was around for my childhood between the ages of 40 and 50.
The lady that babysat me who was like 75.
And my Piano Teacher, he was also fairly old. Grouchiness was how you could tell, that and the almost-white grey colored hair.
They were the best people I knew. Nice, sophisticated, polite, never out of turn, never out of order.
Slowly over the years they’ve died, and I mean the years between 10 and 20.
I’m 20, and some of the nicest people I’ve met between the ages of 10 and now are dead.
I’m left in a world where I have to pick my friends and decide how good they are as people and friends. Whether I’m right later on is to be seen.
Shit it was easier when the people you wanted in your life sifted right in and
the garbage filtered out.
Now I get a heaping helping of both, the choice is mine.
I haven’t the slightest clue if I’m choosing right. Ever.
Most of them are gone, few are left,
and the rest, a somewhat poorly chosen selection so far, is up to me.
You know the funny thing.
They tell people from New York:
You wouldn’t want to live there.
But we live here, and it’s not that far beyond hell.
For us that is.
But for you..
You come here and as soon as you get in you say:
Let’s try and figure this out
the same way you would try to figure Math or English out in a course.
But as you try, that tired and true method, the one that works in every single imaginable other situation.
You get even more so confused than when you stepped off the plane.
You do this for a long while,
all the more time never realizing it’s not working
thinking it’s the city, the city of hell-bent gate guarding angels
It isn’t, it’s your way of thinking
Not that it’s wrong, like I said it’s great for anything else in life you would attempt to comprehend and master. If anything, we’re the fucked.
But Los Angeles isn’t great, it’s weird.
Really weird, backwards would be too far a reversal,
and forward doesn’t even enter the lexicon.
So is it somewhere in the middle?
Heavens no, or should I says Hells.
The line is not straight in this case
There is no Forward, Backward or Middle.
It’s squiggly as shit and it makes you want to puke just looking at it.
I’m sure you’re trying to visualize it right now like this is some kind of unofficial tour guide to Los Angeles.
I wish it was guys, I really do, I’d like to help you out
the same way I would if I knew something that one of my friends didn’t.
But I couldn’t even write a book about trying to adapt.
It’s fucking weird, I never had to, but I’ve seen it on others.
The faces you make, and I get it, that face,
is a direct embodiment of just the feeling your having.
You’re thinking, word for word.
How could things ever get this fucked up and stay this way for so long.