Friday, March 27, 2009

Normal Daydream

I was driving home without any music on and with the windows open so I could hear what was going on around me today. It could be that i was tired, but I thought I heard lots of dogs barking. All I heard was barking. So I started imagining if all the dogs broke free of their backyards and congregated in an open field where they all would jump into a pile and rub against each other like a ball pit of fur. I also thought about how much fun it would be if i crawled my way in and snuggled up against all the fur without the shit and ball sacks.

Then I realized I was daydreaming of being in a fur pile.
Then I rolled up the windows and turned on my music.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Daytime Theatre

I was walking down the lane off the coast of Monte Carlo. I’m walking on glass and my hands are shaking. I am reeling from a car accident- I think.

Let me back up.

One day I was driving home from work when I suddenly felt the urge to fall asleep. I would close one eye and wait for the other to follow. I didn’t have the radio playing but I still heard a debilitating silence. The silence served as blankets and fueled my slumber. The only regard I had for oncoming traffic was my worry of being slightly annoyed due to an accident disrupting my slumber. I accelerated, turned on cruise control and fell asleep. I dreamt of a man wearing an afternoon trench coat, holding a flask. I’m standing in the middle of a road while this man is uttering words to me which have no relevancy whatsoever. He frequently takes a swig of his flask and talks to either myself or the ground. He has a lazy eye. His name is George. I suddenly find myself infuriated with this man. I yell at him, “What the fuck are you saying you fucking drunk? Do you expect people to take you seriously when you are standing there talking nonsense! Who the fuck do you think you are? Get out of the fucking road! GET OUT OF THE GOD DAMN ROAD. MOVE!”

And then I was hit by a car. Maybe.

I suddenly wish I felt more regard for traffic as I awake to see my head in a pillow of air. I then realize this was what I pretty much wanted, to be nestled in a bed. I see the car ahead and think to myself, “Oh shit. I killed him. I fucking killed him. Shit shit cunt muscle.” I make my way out of the car and find the man knocked out. I help him out and lay him on the ground. I take a bottle of water out of my car, wash some of the blood off of my arm and pour the remainder on this man’s face. He awakes, seemingly agitated at this. “Oh, sorry. I’m really sorry. I, uh, oh damn it. Fuck. Fuck.” I’m confused and still quite tired. I would feel terrible if I inconvenienced this man by saving his life. Even still, I have no idea what happened. I was dozing. I tell him, “Yeah, I can’t believe that happened… Um- yeah.” He gets up and starts pacing. He finally notices me and says, “Yeah, sorry man. This was stupid of me. I really didn’t mean to… well I did. I fucking did. I ran straight into you and I know I did. That was dumb. Oh shit.” I become interested, but am still tired. “Are you suicidal or something?” I ask. He’s offended. “Fuck no! Please don’t think that. I was just, uhhh. Well, I was just trying to... Well I was driving home from work and I… Well… fuck. Well. Shit. Well. SHIT. Ugh… I drove into you because I was trying to meet somebody new.”
I reach out my hand, he shakes it and I say, “Hello, my name is Andrew.”

Fucking drunk.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Fourth Floor

Across the room a pig is roasting. It never stops roasting. I am sitting in a room wondering what has happened to America. This is a buffet, the pinnacle of free choice, an edible marketplace. Across I see a fat man sitting in front of a full plate. Lots of chicken, steak, pasta to name a few. He is alone. He is happy. A boy is walking to an ice cream machine and fills his cone with a vanilla and chocolate swirl. He begins to cover it with sprinkles, gummi bears, shit like that. His father comes up and scolds him, claiming he didn’t eat any of his food. They did not come for ice cream. His son was doing it wrong. There is an old couple of average weight. The man is eating blueberry pie and carrot cake. His wife looks at his plate and asks, “Are you finished?” He smiles and replies, “I’ve been finished for years.” To the table across from that are Mexicans, tired from a day’s work. A waitress is coming back to their table with some more coffee. The machine was off for a while so the first glass she gave Paco was cold. Paco likes his coffee warm. Everyone here is unaware that I am judging them. What appears to be an American Idol compellation disk is quietly playing overhead. It makes the customers happy. The food makes them happy. The pig is still roasting. A baby is crying. The pig is still roasting. A relationship between a mother wearing a football jersey and a daughter wearing a sweatshirt that reads “Baby Girl” is deteriorating. In six years she will fall in love with the first boy who gives her attention. In seven she will be depressed from their break up. She is eating a corn dog. She will grow up to be very overweight. I have eaten 17 rolls. I only eat rolls. The only one who has been here as long as I have is the happy fat man. We’re quite aware of each other. I name him Leroy. Leroy the Fat Man. A boy wearing a cut off muscle shirt has to poop. He wonders why humans are the only living organisms with the concept of a bathroom. Another boy pulls out his mother’s camera and takes a picture of a stranger eating. The mother scolds the boy for invading the stranger’s privacy. The mother apologizes to the stranger. The boy learns nothing. He doesn’t know why eating is a private, shameful act. Neither do I. The pig is now burnt, turning and roasting.