Being a snippet from bits of sharded truth I will later collectivize so as to have tricked self into producing a sort of “novel”
I Remember Every Fucking Song I Know.
They are like hip rainbows that use primary colours to insist I keep walking straight, keep the faith alive, and keep my freedom’s mute anthem on bust despite nobody there to encircle you they keep you alert to it all anyway. Because you never know. Isn’t that how the song goes? Or is that some comic on the periphery jabbing at my memory trying to sink me when I barely just saw sea, see?
Every night I dream I am more and more trapped in Nuketown, this level we played to death in Black Ops, before I sold the system and just determined to stare at it until I filled it, this screen, with the pitter-patter oncoming of words and more of them. Marching back home like an amnesiac emperor or better like a Gibran-character, back to the boat for more adventure and bigger lines on the map to take us even to Conrad’s blurry spots. It helps they design the houses in the game like the ones in our suburbs, and my characters aren’t going to war with Fal’s and Aug’s (words I would’ve never learned-and to what image of corresponding weapon to boot- without the Baudrillardean construct) instead my troupe is enacting these crazy war call rituals, crooning and mooning. Making it, some of them, and later a great rumble (something from my childhood reading of The Outsiders?) but the thing is the music. It’s there but only in snips; it curls in Greek letters to the floor, burning still with insight.
It’s all given the soundtrack I have to assume my heart knows no division in its love for the audio-mood-swing-spectrum-saving-grace-oh-fuck-that’s-an-amazing-track-have-you-heard-their-discography? –life, it’s the one that takes you past every moment’s security detail.
Every night I dance a little then make my way into this Western Frontier town style saloon, and Juliette Lewis sings that track from Strange Days where she oozes sex into the mic and it interrupts criminal activities miles away. Later I sit with all the cast and crew of the movie, I’m sort of scribe or gopher its unclear and irrelevant. They want me to remember lines for them but I’m too busy hitting on Angela Basset who I’ve crushed on since 91 and Boyz in da Hood, and we talk about her diminished role in the movie and what it meant to the female perspective in the narrative, I even recall a rush from sounding so intelligent- and then we talk about Ralph Fiennes’ character and how useless he’d be without his one true friend.
Every night I’m another colourful lie and another impish step toward making something universally recognizable and dead inside, something epic and intentional. Maybe tonight I’ll do the poem i meant to all year about the manager Tim Horton’s, how she initially reminded me of the actress how played Arabella in the Kate Winslet version of Jude (the Obscure) just her nose and face proportions of course, and how forever I assumed that was her character until a friend mentioned her having had the lad with dreadlocks who delivered the cream and sugar. Sometime dreams are dwarfed by reality, that kind of thing.
Every time I think of poor Jude lying there while the world graduates another class of men beyond his reach, I just about cry. That book should be handed out and forced into the hearts of young poets like offal’s into a grinder, turned into a lesson, made a mark of. Emblazoned. I cringed when I knew, envisioning him on top of the table saying the prayer in Latin that I’d never even gleam close to Hardy’s life, or Conrad with his arms rowing, or Frederick Phillip Grove cutting dirt first for that matter in Can Lit or the rest of them, not like Blaise and her prodigious early novel , or Rimbaud’s 18 year old strokes on the board revamping versification in the late 18th.
I was just going to have to manage with what I had; comic book and horror movie references, general meta-reference obsession, a working knowledge of the humanities, some misplaced youth spent emulating the beats to a disheartening level of precision and mimicry. And yes, more than
a few addict-edges rubbed against for kicks, darkness, light, the whole show to keep a rhythm to what I felt at times might at least pay some homage to the greats.
But I digress. Back to the Arabella coffee wench. (no offense of course to my first lover of a similar name who made great Kraft Dinner as it happens.)