Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. His chest is tight. So much rain spatter. Peaches Geldof is dead abhorrent tragedy. He gets his driver’s license. A weight is lifted he is elated drained shorn of feeling and emotion yet giddy with a feeling that he does not have a owrd for. he sits in a car and listens ot the radio. He wishes his phoens was working but it is not working it is broken but he has a driver’s license and…
Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. His chest is tight. So much rain spatter. Peaches Geldof is dead abhorrent tragedy. He gets his driver’s license. A weight is lifted he is elated drained shorn of feeling and emotion yet giddy with a feeling that he does not have a owrd for. he sits in a car and listens ot the radio. He wishes his phoens was working but it is not working it is broken but he has a driver’s license and…
Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. His life is all acoustic pulses and repetetive beats and repetetive beats and grilled cheese and stomach ache and neck ache and back ache and ache ache. He is swelling up like a balloon. He worries about imaginary pain and ignores real pain. He stares at the wall for a while. He drinks a coffee. He draws some pictures. He wipes his hands until they are red and raw. He sneezes but he…
Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. His life is all acoustic pulses and repetetive beats and repetetive beats and grilled cheese and stomach ache and neck ache and back ache and ache ache. He is swelling up like a balloon. He worries about imaginary pain and ignores real pain. He stares at the wall for a while. He drinks a coffee. He draws some pictures. He wipes his hands until they are red and raw. He sneezes but he…
Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. He glides through the day passing people on every side sliding between the spaces in time and space. He bathes in an ocean of information. It drips off him as he walks through the digital storm. He sees spy cameras everywhere and electronic nets collecting swarms of data. He is content but it is veined with trepidity because he is not normally content and generally contentment is a…
Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.
He wakes up. He glides through the day passing people on every side sliding between the spaces in time and space. He bathes in an ocean of information. It drips off him as he walks through the digital storm. He sees spy cameras everywhere and electronic nets collecting swarms of data. He is content but it is veined with trepidity because he is not normally content and generally contentment is a…
He wakes up. His chest is tight. So much rain spatter. Peaches Geldof is dead abhorrent tragedy. He gets his driver’s license. A weight is lifted he is elated drained shorn of feeling and emotion yet giddy with a feeling that he does not have a owrd for. he sits in a car and listens ot the radio. He wishes his phoens was working but it is not working it is broken but he has a driver’s license and Mickey Rooney is dead. All nature is repetition. All hope all love all hate is repetition all has happened before every breath every thought infused with every previous thought and hope and moment nostalgia shell shock battle fatigue ptsd a new term is needed war truth reality on the road home but he will never arrive home broken forever to be walking the homestead just over the next mound the welcome vertical of chimney smoke never to enjoy the heat of the fire. Morseless bravery in the blasted bunker. He has a driver’s license and finally learns why it has taken so long because his name was too long and now they learn their error they blame him with their eyes but they reset a scanner and they give him his license and finally he has it in his hands and he is a driver and a human being and a productive member of society again. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. His life is all acoustic pulses and repetetive beats and repetetive beats and grilled cheese and stomach ache and neck ache and back ache and ache ache. He is swelling up like a balloon. He worries about imaginary pain and ignores real pain. He stares at the wall for a while. He drinks a coffee. He draws some pictures. He wipes his hands until they are red and raw. He sneezes but he is not sure whether it is because of allergies of because he is dying from some unknown disease or if he is being tickled by angel wings. He goes to sleep having wasted the day.
He wakes up. He glides through the day passing people on every side sliding between the spaces in time and space. He bathes in an ocean of information. It drips off him as he walks through the digital storm. He sees spy cameras everywhere and electronic nets collecting swarms of data. He is content but it is veined with trepidity because he is not normally content and generally contentment is a prologue to disaster but he decides to enjoy it for the moment. He goes to sleep.
He wakes up. He finds some vodka in a glass by his bed which has some cranberry juice in it. There is no time for breakfast so he drinks this and the bitterness wakes him up. He has no time for a shower. He wears the same clothes from the day before only just making the effort to find a new pair of underpants. He puts the underpants on backwards and the takes them off and puts them off the correct way. Then he stares at the new art of George W. Bush. It is aesthetically very basic yet utterly compelling because of the identity of the artist. The average art works of a teenager become something more profound and powerful because the hand that painted them contains the fingers that wavered over the red button for eight years. He wonders if Paul Bremer is jealous that he is not getting as much attention for his art his flat landscapes and barns and bridges of madison county. He wonders why he doesn’t wear more dresses. Dresses are pretty and it would be nice to wear one but he thinks that his hairiness would probably fight against whatever pretty dress he chose. Then he eats a donut and then he has a coffee and he buys some groceries and he does his laundry and he ponders whether he should paint his nails and he paints his nails in lots of pretty rainbow colors and they look pretty but they go with none of his outfits so he takes nail polish remover and gently dabs a cotton ball with nail polish remover and he removes the nail polish and he prepares himself for whatever the day may bring tomorrow another trip to the mva a driving license the wind the sun the rain the cherry blossoms whatever the world wishes to drench him in he is ready. He goes to sleep.
He wants to get clean.
He cannot get into the shower.
He cannot bear to get into the shower.
His head is turned away from the mirror and yet he is looking into the mirror and he is looking out at us.
Is he judging us? Are we judging him? Is he asking us to pass the soap? Can he not bare to get clean? How long has he been in the shower? Does he have a towel nearby?
Oh why can I not get clean, he thinks to himself.
Lest we forget – this is who was in charge last time round.
Lest we forget – this is who was in charge last time round.
The SleepCoat League Presents: 