Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.

He wakes up. He is standing at a bus stop. As he stands he watches as a man drives past driving somewhere. What is most noticeable is that the gentleman is daintily holding a pop tart between his fingers as he drives. He has eaten a corner of it and crumbs are visible on his cheeks. This image lasts but a second as the car zips past. The woman who was shot it seems was suffering from post partum depression. He writes this into his phone and smart text fails and writes pussy possum depression. There is no such thing as pussy possum depression. The mistake of the phone adds an absurdity to the horrible tragedy and no one talks about the fact that the only response that the police seem to have is violence and escalation and there are now stories that the woman was outside the car when she was shot but whether this is true or not he doesn’t know but her child was in the car her child was in the car her child was in the car and she thought Obama was stalking her. This is not so unreasonable as Obama is, in a way stalking everyone – even if not directly – the surveillance state is stalking everybody. He pays for part of his car but not all of his car because all of a sudden his car has a thousand things wrong with it but at least now it is fixed but unfortunately now he cannot take his car because he cannot afford all the costs which are now three times as much as the car cost to buy but then the car did cost only $900 so what did he expect he expected not to have to pay three times as much for the car for repairs that’s what he expected. Then he finds that all day he has to go to the toilet a lot and he experiences consistencies all along the spectrum from gruel to playdoh. Then he comes up with a strategy to fight the panopticon it is here to stay and it is not leaving so the the only way is to carry on as if the panopticon didn’t exist and rebel against its ubiquity by ignoring it and heightening the behaviors it deems unacceptable until such time as it breaks you on the wheel of its unflinching authority and power. Fight it even in the face of certain defeat – that is what it is to be human. This is his solution so he writes some poetry and he reads a beautiful zine and thinks about making his own and he wonders as he stands behind a man on the elevator who has a large behind that looks so inviting because he is so tired he just wants to lean forward and snuggle on it like a lovely pillow. It seems so inviting. He does not lean forward and snuggle on the stranger’s behind because he understands how one is supposed to behave in public and he will do the same with his real pillow when he gets home. Then he hears about a man who sets himself on fire on the National Mall but it merits little more than a footnote in the day and the man saluted the capitol before setting the gas he doused himself in alight and he was called John Constantino and he was 64 and he was from Mount Laurel in New Jersey and some people said that he may have done it because of the shut down but no witnesses who were there heard him say anything so no one is really any the wiser as to why he did what he did but he is dead now and the roller coaster of his life is as much a mystery as the end of his life. He drinks horkheimer red wine and enjoys flirting and goes home and thinks and imagines the glorious future where that flirting will become the seeds and the foundations of something beautiful and flowering and burgeoning and exciting and wonderful. He goes to sleep.

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The Sleepcoat League

Armchair anthropologist, sometime scribe, freelance philosopher, amateur artist, part-time poet, musical maven, alliteration aficionado.

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