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| -rw-r--r-- | ch1/cuts.txt | 17 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | ch3/ch3.txt | 23 |
2 files changed, 22 insertions, 18 deletions
diff --git a/ch1/cuts.txt b/ch1/cuts.txt index e66a6c3..d4f6a63 100644 --- a/ch1/cuts.txt +++ b/ch1/cuts.txt @@ -1,3 +1,20 @@ +Slice life like bread gets stale faster -- music gets rid of voice -- guitar retires -- faster newer smaller stuff -- emotional plague hits west coast -- thousands lost -- Mayan caper inferred -- ancient city found -- new reality tunnel finished -- down the driveway -- next to the old rabbit hole -- heads on tails -- significantly more anxious -- needed every day -- sweeter than this -- + + + + +From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net> +To: sil@kali.org +Subject: + + + + + + + + + Mexico City: I remember Mexico City in a hazy, brown, discolored way, but it's not the smog-scenes of dust, carbon excrement overlaying each other-a photomontage of choking, exhausted skies. In flickering stills, twenty four frames per second, here and there a frame or two missing, little glitches...jagged cut to a subway shot, brown faces black hair ... lay on top an image of pyramid excavation, digging up to solve the Mayan Caper... years ago, you understand... she was standing right next to me and then...a warm, sweet smelling cab and my father said, "Hey, look-a Kentucky Fried Chicken," a kaleidoscope of disappointment and guilt... the shock of fried chicken. Everything focusing into the sun; burnt in fantastical visions-not fear in the sense of a threat, much worse, a lingering in the back of the mind occasionally eliciting a paralysis that haunts indefinitely, then fades again in the face of day to day activities-it's all going to stop someday. It's a fear that leaves you like a diff --git a/ch3/ch3.txt b/ch3/ch3.txt index 5c32286..544672d 100644 --- a/ch3/ch3.txt +++ b/ch3/ch3.txt @@ -1,12 +1,6 @@ -Slice life like bread gets stale faster -- music gets rid of voice -- guitar retires -- faster newer smaller stuff -- emotional plague hits west coast -- thousands lost -- Mayan caper inferred -- ancient city found -- new reality tunnel finished -- down the driveway -- next to the old rabbit hole -- heads on tails -- significantly more anxious -- needed every day -- sweeter than this -- +I saw Dean. his place is wreck. You know he's living - - -From: Dean O'Leary <do@morpheus.net> -To: sil@kali.org -Subject: - I have a fish tank. Melissa bought it, but I have it. It's here right in front of me right now. There is a fish in it. We put it in yesterday. Melissa named him Dean Jr. Dean Jr. has a plastic castle and a plastic treasure box. He's swimming back and forth between them. He never goes anywhere else. It's like every two seconds his memory expires and he has to go back and see what these damnable things are that he just swam by. Or perhaps its merely that I feel that way, swimming through the city, by the castle, by the rocks, by the crumbling pink stones in the park. We once had gills. I don't mean eveolution, I mean I think we once had gills. Atlantis isn't a mythical city that sank into the sea, it was always under the sea. We lived there, we swam by, and abscent of memory swam by again. A sort of daze. I envy you down there, you don't have to swim, you can merely sit. The water is still. Or that's how I imagine it. The surface of the pond, not yet distrubed by the ripless of what is emerging below. You are higher up, in the sunlight filled waters near the surface. Down here things are not well, the memory is fading, senility is survival. @@ -78,17 +72,6 @@ We drink beer and unload furniture. Jimmy keeps going back to Dylan every time w - -It is one of those Octavio Paz nights where the sky speaks Spanish and looks surly, doubly purple its usual self, and the stars are a Navaho sand painting stretched across the ceiling of the world. Serpentine eels wiggling around in the electrical storm of the mind. Lightening strikes somewhere, a thought in an architect's head, suspension bridge wires, wink and smile. - -The Falcon roars. It is our fading youth, but not middle aged or mid -- twenties crisis sort of fading youth. Such things having come and gone with the uncomfortable realization that nothing ever happens. Tall buildings are raised. Then razed. You go on. You don't want to. You want it to be painful, you want it to be so fucking gloriously painful it makes you cry. But it doesn't. And even if it did, what then? Space changes. Time fluctuates. But it plods on, the purr and growl of cylinders roaring, then settling, then roaring. In the intermittent silence of shifting gears the questions loom, perhaps it is all a lie and you are alone, perhaps the questions are only slow, insidious dribbles of propagandacid trickling from your oil filter, leaving thick meaningless splotches on the asphalt, a slow drain needing only a new filter. Perhaps you are sitting in the machine, on the machine, perhaps the machine is you, the acceleration an extension of femur to tibia, to talus, to phalanges and fading slowly from flesh and bone to leather and rubber, and then metal rods, a cable snaking through the firewall, an exposed and surprisingly flimsy extension from mind to throttle in one unbroken line, room for silence only in the space between sole and accelerator. - -Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter -- skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words. - -And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t -- shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy -- eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi -- permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor. - - - @@ -137,6 +120,10 @@ And here I am all pixilated and dressed in black with a Jesuit wide brim hat. Gi +Downtown. The Manhattan. We are in the Manhattan. There are drinks on the table, drinks poured in the mismatched helter -- skelter collection of glasses used to transfer the goods into the service. Jimmy is talking, no longer his animated self, a brief pause, his second wind will kick in soon. He is saying things quietly. Excuses I believe. Excuses for the excuses that have grown weary of dragging around. He feels nothing is getting done and he knows why. It isn't going to get done. Lullabies. Turn the page. When you look in his eyes, his moving lips, they look just like yours, how you imagine yours to look, how yours must look when you spit out your own excuses for the excuses that are excusing things you perhaps ought not to have been trying to do in the first place and you wonder if people look at your teeth when you talk or do they look at your eyes with the arrogance of complacency and contentment, watching smugly as your teeth begin to fall out, and you chew them, bleeding gums, torn lips and chunks of tooth choking back the words. + +And all the while the shuffling of indie rock feet scuffing from door to bar, the awkward brush of corduroy pants, the stealthy screaming fibers of too tight t -- shirts stretching to meekly collect drinks and shuffle off to a corner table. But we are in the corner table. We have your corner table. You are in the open now. You are exposed. All of you. We're staring at you. Do you feel on stage? Isn't it what you've always wanted? The thing too dangerous to be dreamed, the thing you have denied yourselves for so long. Slouching, weepy -- eyed, meekly waiting to inherit? This is what you want. We are giving you the opportunity. You are seizing it, I can see it in your hunched shoulders, the semi -- permanent curvature of the spine developed from too many years spent bending over thrift store racks, record bins, eyes squinted from reading the imprints of limited edition vinyl. You will come here soon. Soon the filters will spring leaks. Thick warm liquid will begin to ooze out, cigarette breath grow hotter, hearts sputter, and you will want to feel, you will want so fucking bad to feel. But it doesn't come. It is leaking out from under you, crumbling from the inside. Violent smugness is leaking from drinks, hazardous waste collecting and pooling, seeping across the floor. + Chloe disrupts the indie rock calm of the Manhattan. She sashays Saturday night with glittering toenails wrapped in heels with more strap than is necessary -- excess is best -- and the nearly unheard of skirt. Heads turn as heads do whenever the door slams shut behind someone, but then heads snap back to whatever they were doing lest the girlfriend across the table in the paint stained overalls detect a pique of interest -- the girlfriends' glitterless scornful glares -- you bitch you tramp you whore you porn -- enjoying feminism -- destroying carnivore... "Damn girl." Jimmy shits bolt upright when Chloe comes over, "you be looking fine tonight." |