:: Porkchop Serum ::

:: Thursday, November 11, 2004 ::

I think i like that. Something in the vein of The Big O or Aeon Flux, a modern city (or small country) contained within a protective bubble or enclosure. Outside of which is a medieval hell-land teeming with creatures and forces most unholy. Oh, if only the residents of Fuckville knew. I dont really, most of the time, intend to take these little snippets past the first post. I get an idea or a couple images and I run with it.

i think you should do all those jobs.

:: sandy 7:21 PM [+] ::
...

the rain is coming down in drops the size of grapes. the cacophony of a million musically inclined four years old battering on lazagna pans is the audible onslaught of water on automobile roofs. Every so often i see a person gaze skyward, perhaps to catch sight of the sky closing up. Their grimace betrays perhaps another thought. All these massive skyscrapers looming above the streets. Strong and square and wide. All day, everyday they stand chest out to the world. Even the sun must concede to their stark, sharp edges. But today, this little asian woman casts an evil glare at our neighborhood giants. This is all it takes to defeat you?, she must be thinking. I laugh at the thought of all these great buildings extending massive flat arms from there sides, covering the streets for sixty minutes a day in April. She must be having the same idea as me as she starts to smile, lower her head beneath her black umbrella and press on.

Gum, today's paper and the latest Economist. Six dollars. A wave to Julio inside the kiosk. A message from Wix. A change in plans. What else is new, I think to myself but i know that Wix is saying the same thing to himself right now.

Chew the gum, ditch the paper and keep the mag. Pays to be informed on the world is this life. I hail a cab and in I slide on the faux leather backseat. Inside a cab, for me, is like a recurring nightmare. Not that all my cab rides are horrible (well, that one time in Bangkok) but its the same Crown Vic with asundry loose parts clammering over every bump, the same combo of insents and ass, and the same feeling of truly, not being in control of your own destiny. Thankfully with the rain, the traffic (and by extention me) isnt moving at 8000 miles per hour. Through tunnels with big concrete columns or careening up massive flyovers. Down crowded side streets or past a throng of high schoolers from Alabama. Safe and sound we creep out of town and to the local commuter jetport. I hop out of my dream fifteen dollars lighter and make my way through the parking lot crammed with Mercedes and BMWs. This is where the city elite catch the company jet. Must be nice. It really is quite funny how in this place that caters to the uber-wealthy, they cater to only the uber-wealthy. No copy of People or EW in the wating lounge. No, just complimentary copies of a thirty dollar, what appear to be 18 by 12 inch, super glossy magazine titled Travel. Such extravagance of lifestyle summed up in one little, well no big, magazine.

I piss, retrieve a shot of mouthwash from the dispenser (see what I mean?) and make my way out onto the apron where I find Wixon, still astride his motorcycle talking to one of the always attractive receptionists, outside on a smoke break. I'm just happy he's here on time. There must be something good waiting for us. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Wixon slaps the girl on the ass. Its time to get moving.

:: sandy 8:13 PM [+] ::
...

Dreams will rot if they cannot climb the hill.. slipping down everyday, sprawled in the goo of a million decayed desires. how do i know? I smell it everyday i walk outside. Or is it incinerated canine. Who can really tell. I think they both come from the same Smell family.

Write in the dark. Write in the mall on Christmas morning. Write on a midnight boat in the South Pacific. Weave in a New Years flood, sit indian style on the asphault and write. Ignore the swelling and cresting sea of skulls above you. Fuck everything but never stop writing.. for here it is, a tenuous frayed band, snaking through time. Tying together triumphs with Greater triumphs. I prefer to dangle from the mindLine, falling clumsily as I do in a great downy mountain of stupid sayings and nascent revolutions.

Fuck Yall
We walk along the wall
We dash
you crawl
Yesterday we Compose
tomorrow you scrawl
Win Debates with god
Lemurs wince at your drawl
Fuck yall
We walk along the wall

:: sandy 7:11 AM [+] ::
...

damn bro, so much to chew through. can't use up all my moneeeess on the PS just yet. i will. must catch up more. have you reach the peak yet or are golden arms pulling you down?

:: sandy 4:09 AM [+] ::
...