Faces sag in unison.
The day has taken a little more
Than we wanted to give.
Yet still someone whistles
Show tunes from Annie.
Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.
andy samberg, art, blog, blogger, blogging, david hasslehoff, david mitchell, death, diary, ESPN, Fiction, journal, keenan thompson, love, nfl, non-fiction, Pharrell Williams, stream of consciousness, writer, writing
He wakes up. There were no dreams again. A black hole where his dreams should be. He watches Keenan Thompson shivering in a shirt in the rain. He watches Andy Samberg gurning into the camera with his large mouth. Andy Samberg will one day eat the camera but it will be funny and everyone will laugh and Andy Samberg will look confused but in an endearing way which will make his fans love him all the more. Dr. Dre is doing very well for himself. He is very rich. Even though Apple took his company bought it and then crushed it. Such is capitalism. Expansion and destruction. There is more bombing. There is more war that isn’t called war. Everyone knows that it’s war but no one calls it war because the leaders have decided not to call it war. It is amusing and it is sad. There is talk of politics and ESPN and the NFL and power and wealth. There is a toad on the rain wet driveway. The toad is not moving. It may be crushed by a car later in the day. The rain bounces of it’s back. He drinks a coffee. He thinks about Love and Sadness and the Penumbra of Death that halos every living thing. There is waiting. There are many maps spread out over the large tables. Neat lines drawn hid the chaos. The orderly geometry hides the chaos. Except the chaos is not hidden. It struts round in plain sight daring anyone who cares to stare it direct in it’s blackhole eyes. It has many eyes. The NFL is losing the optical war but it doesn’t care because it makes a lot of money. There are loans to be paid. There are debts to be paid. He reads writing advice from David Mitchell. It includes the advice that writing is a good thing to do if one wants to be a writer. This is good advice. He tries to take it. He is told to take things for granted. That the is oil. That there is no oil. That there are genetic manipulation booths. That asexual human reproduction is normal or it will be or it was that the comedian is the vampire owl of the art world. There are bowed heads. It is morning but already people are weighed down by the day. There are turncoats hidden everywhere. The French won The War of Independence. David Hasslehoff brought down the Berlin Wall and ended the cold war. Pharrell Williams bring Iran into the fold of Western Hegemony. King Pharrell. Pope Pharrell. Emporer Pharrell. A silver fox is caught for funneling school children into a prison system that he made with a friend. He is sent to a prison but the system remains the system is vibrant and alive he was a necessary sacrifice a bad actor a bad apple a one in a million nothing to see here move along no problem with the old white haired men the criminals who legalize their crimes the villians who make the rules for themselves and the rules for everyone else. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. There is more bombing. Is it legal? No one seems to care. He is offered a new phone. It looks like it’s from the future. He writes words and words and words. He watches more Elementary. He watches even more Elementary. He eats good food. He enjoys good company. He plays Tiny Death Star. He downloads Memrise language learning and promises himself that this time he will become fluent. He gets on the bus but his pass doesn’t work. The driver is kind and lets him sit. He eats meat. He eats fruit. He drinks five coffees. He watches Obama talk at the UN. The Primeminister of Britain says that the Queen purred down the phone to him. Is the new Queen of England Eartha Kitt? He hopes that the new Queen of England is Earth Kitt. Everything is wonderful and everything is hopeless. There is no script. There is no prompt. There is in a dark cave somewhere hope barely alive but struggling towards the light. He goes to sleep.
art, Bill Lehrer, Bill Mckibben, blog, blogger, blogging, Chris Hedges, climate, diary, Elementary, Fiction, journal, Kshama Sawan, Naomi Klein, non-fiction, Obama, politics, Sen. Bernie Sanders, stream of consciousness, The Voice, war, writer, writing
He wakes up. There is a stench in the air. The stench of a Presidential Race. It is faint but unmistakable. Even as the US Midterms roll up over the horizon they are a sideshow to the main circus. He can see the tent-poles being set in the distance. He can feel the acrid reek in his nostrils already. It will not be pleasant but it will be fascinating. The Theater of Democracy. The Lie of Freedom. The Illusion of Choice. Scotland has said no cowed by the overbearing power elite cowed by fear cowed by cows cow lowing in the fields eating grass and producing tasty milk and burgers. He tries to plan. He succeeds. He fails. He makes a coffee. He eats some breakfast. The pancakes for breakfast are tasty pancakes. He ponders the future. He reads Pliny the Elder. He reads Too Big To Fail. All the criminals are here. They are all described in detail. Their actions and justifications are clear to see on the page. Bernie Madoff is their scapegoat. There are bigger problems. There is a climate march in New York City. Lots of people attend. Just like the March against the War in Iraq just like the March against the War in Iraq. Just like the March against the War in Vietnam. What do marches do except give the authorities the opportunity to observe the trouble makers and the peaceniks. To collate and photograph and store the information of the rebels, the subversives, the Anti-Americans ready to come to your door to take away your freedom and your toaster stroodles and your playstation 4 and your Xbox 1 and your America’s Got Talent Voting rights. He fills boxes with books. He tries on his dainty new cock ring. It smarts. He has made a terrible mistake. Then he gets used to it. He likens it to the cilice from The DaVinci Code but not as unpleasant. There are many unpleasant things in the world. Human beings are sad hopeful creatures. He is one of them. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He wakes up too early. His alarm goes off and he wakes from a dream of Scottish Independence and dancing a jig but then he realises his alarm went off too early and he doesn’t know why he is dancing a jig because he can’t vote and he doesn’t know how he would vote because he keeps changing his mind but it looks like someone is going to win. Somewhere an otter eats a fish. Somewhere else a deer looks off into the distance as it hears a noise. John Kerry is talking to Congress again. The ladies in Pink are standing behind him again. There are signs. Bored looking members of Congress ask questions. They all look like they want to be playing golf with fundraisers at their high walled golf clubs. He watches a trailer for Fury. He wonders at the constant refrain of the brave little Americans fighting the gargantuan enemy when the truth is that America is gargantuan and the enemy of America is always little. There is no terror in that or profit in that or shame in that. There is shame in that. Shame is everywhere. He reads Waiting for Godot. GODot. godOT. A magician wins America’s Got Talent. Will he magic away the financial crises, the military crises, the crisis crises? He will not but he does seem to be good with his hands and he has a sincere to the point of mania Tom Cruise smile. He draws, he plots, he schemes. He sleeps.
He wakes up. There is coffee. He is talking with an old lady about her manipulative grandchildren who know all the codes who have thousands of dollars in their bank accounts whose ages change from 8 to 10 to 19 to 18 depending on when he asks questions about them. He dreams about prostitutes who have all become fashion consultants. There is no more to the dream than that. He watches an interview with Eddy Conway ex of the Black Panthers. He watches a course on learning well. He procrastinates. He learns nothing from the course. He eats half a burger. He trims his prodigious beard. He cannot understand America without understanding race. He cannot understand the world without understanding race. He dreams about people who do not have eyes but have paintbrush bristles where there eyes should be an no other features but that their faces smooth polished variegated wood their bodies entirely ordinary just their faces wooden and flat and their eyes tight paintbrush bristles they seem entirely okay with this state of affairs. There is no war just dropping bombs there is no war just talk of boots on the ground there is no conflict or war just targeted killings and advisors and regurgitated humanity spoiling in a heap. There is no war but there will be boots on the ground but there won’t be boots on the ground this is not a war this is not a war this is not a war. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He hears that there has been another decapitation. This time is is a British man. Next time there will be another British man. Then there will be more lined up heads rolling down the hill and soon decapitations will not make headlines because there will be so many of them. Then he makes some brownies. Then he eats some sushi. Then he walks. Then he lies down. There is rain outside. It is coming down from the sky. There are clouds full of rain. There are clouds full of tears. Never trust a clown. He eats a tasty burger. He creates a fictional home in a digital town by the sea and spends too much time making the living room look just perfect when he doesn’t own a house in real life. He eats some lemon crunch pie. His digital avatar eats some lemon crunch pie. There is something terrible and sad about this. He forgets what happened during the rest of the day. His mind is a creamy white amnesiac cloud. He goes to sleep hoping that he will remember what he has forgotten and forget what he keeps remembering.
art, blog, blogger, blogging, Cecily Strong, CIA, Colin Jost, diary, Fiction, IS, ISIL, isis, journal, Liam Neeson, Lorne Michaels, Michael Che, non-fiction, Obama, SNL, stream of consciousness, Ted Cruz, writer, writing
He wakes up. President Obama has gone Liam Neeson on IS or ISIL or ISIS or whatever the gang of desert ne’er do wells are called. He is not sure that President Obama believes anything he says publicly anymore but he’s saying it he saying it again and again. He watches as the fear of ISIS grows and grows and grows and the news stories talk about the growing fears even as the CIA says again and again that there are no credible threats and when the CIA say there are no credible threats there are probably no credible threats because the CIA love having credible threats to get their black ops money for and are always willing to talk about threats so even if they don’t think that they are a threat then are they a threat. He does not know. Then he gets angry because Cecily Strong is being kicked off Weekend Update because no one wants to kick the White coiffed head writer off Weekend Update because the white man always wins even though her replacement is the excellent Michael Che but why not have Michael Che and Cecily Strong is it because Lorne Michaels thinks that America is not ready for a black man and a white woman to appear together on live television doing comedy together week in and week out is america still terrified of a black man and a white woman making comedy together is this where we are have we not moved on he thinks to himself. Then he plans his lunch. Then he goes to the gym. Then he showers. Then he wonders if Ted Cruz’s strange argument that Lorne Michaels could be in prison for satire if a law limiting Citizens United comes into affect is a real argument or if Senator Ted Cruz is actually an apolitical performance artist who managed to get elected with grant money from a billionaires art foundation. It is a hot muggy night. He sits in Wholefoods and joins the other hairy homeless men in the pot plants and the dirty tables. He holds hands. He goes to sleep.