((((the squishy problem - part 1.))))
A vault of selfishness contains original designs on a napkin, complete with coffee rings and powdered sugar. Nearly incomprehensible drawings show the co operative relationship between separate metallic screaming elements, apparitions from the fifties, silver angel hood ornaments picking on the aging chauffeur, both of them like quarreling children enacting a tired maypole dance, all while standing perfectly still in the driveway, in the garage, in line, stiff as a board, man and machine. This is pre double-helix, the kind of dream that wont ring any bells at first review. the timing is disturbing.
"This never happened," interrupts an uninvited voice.
(((The squishy problem - part 2.)))))
The mechanics of a living thing at its core plays with electricity and stuff smaller still, vital minerals and metals exchange electrons in a realm vast and indiscernible from outer space, like a nerve ending in a bad tooth emergency, measures uncomfortable and wholly uncouth come into being and enact themselves at conception like a homeless beggar gathering leaves and sticks and bones and skin in a frantic strike against the cold. We have an arrangement, to split our work load and became the living canopy. This is true. Echoes in the fog distort and create forms in the dark, space rewards the bold and wilds unkempt bow and move aside for my fantastic machine. Mary Shelly I love you. I saw a coyote smelling flowers and recognized my brother. I am changed and send a wall of sand into the river with bare feet and watch the organization, the perfection, we all fall down in a symphony of math and magic. "I gots to move" I say to myself in a visible shamble, I need to eat and surf and make love in the grass and smoke strange leaves to ponder the marbles in my head. Music is mine, It's good to be alive. We chose to be here, How could we forget?
(((the squishy problem - part 3. ))))))))
Multiple entities with similar interests have a pup tent shelter cool enough to franchise. What kind of event can be a place with extra gravity? The circus comes to mind. The Ocean however, with time to kill has a stone to polish and the mind to father a fiction still. I get paranoid, could you blame me? Equals meet opposites and contracts get signed, a Napoleon complex is loose and roaming the streets so we found his equal getting loaded downtown and force our way to the place we can get them together to fight. This ain't your ordinary berg, It's a complex planet of its own with a curious trending towards gang violence and squishyness, How gross...Time slows down in the gelatinous goop zones. What a nightmare. I am told its a privilege to tap my feet on solid ground and I try to believe it. In a small town community headline, a midnight staffer got creative. "IT'S ON!" printed in double black taking up half the page. An anti-repugnance campaign got itself underway and like any good revolution the time was right for incestuous riots to break out all over town. Squishy versus Solid, the lines were drawn and denial was free and marching to the tune of a good house cleaning, "whistle that song and wave the new chosen hope you dogs!" comes the call from the television box that all other boxes be judged by. "It sounds like an unvarnished threat to me!" sez the tiny blobular jellyfish man sitting loosely on the bar stool next to me. I say I agree with him to keep him happy (its best to humor a drunk) but he seems to be eyeing the angle of my elbow with suspicion. The poster boy to hang the whole fiasco on is an image hard to shake hands with. A perfect square. Normally a circle takes the square but the liar in us all was left unchallenged for too long. Liars beget liars till the squishy and the fluffy and the funky and the hard proud ground are forced to deal with each other. Secretly on their own they have to admit a similar enthusiasm for seeing Jack released from the his proverbial box. Such an impressive state of affairs is a rolling circus with executions (oddly enough)in the square at the end of every shift. If you are on the outside, the red and yellow tents make a showing of the crowd inside, the fire light makes shadows of the the people sitting in bleachers that dance like unwilling fish that don't know they have just been caught, an aging parking lot is a substitute for something I cant describe. My perceptions of the world are my own and I wont deny my long time allegiance to hot water but a flat rectangular life is what I represent doing stories for the yellow press. a job is a job and a paycheck is a motivator, I try to blend in. The squares sing a song of professionalism and wag their fists at me as I dig around in my pocket for my ticket. All I find is a hole, my money is gone, along with nine quarters a couple of rubber bands and some sand, I turn to go home and almost get trampled, large groups of the recently possessed are bound to trample somebody. I'm glad I got away but feel left out of all that energy that I wont get to see first hand. The poor kids tend to go off and make round kids behind square doors and populate the earth. The joke is on me and it has a sour punchline. The world is full of holes, tents, prisons, stomachs and pockets, we spend our time going through them. ((((B.E.B.
micro photos by Brandon & Julia Bristow, ;)
