Sunday, February 21, 2010
ten tortoise shells, all the way down
The headlights suddenly came into view. Tong jars from a secret society
come to mind when considering the path from east to west. The road cool, not cold,
ready to receive the faith of civilizations in commerce and travel. Fire it up.
This engine moves at precise speeds, moves hearts of holiday movers on strings.
Strangers all one in places unseen. The host of neural pathways, the great mind of hoards migrating. Free-way for people and mystery by advertising dimly sing the roadsides.
O. was on a trip to City ordered by measure of old winds. The vehicle he drove was by no means
a reliable transport and O. knew that the car was tenuous from sacrificed miles to monotony.
Laboring motive, locomotion of humane machines act as a poor reason to realize dreams.
O. worked on his own visions through sketches and photography personally viewed as broken
sides of a promised beast that he rode as an infant cradled in media-rich placenta. Hero
on the television held O. to pacifier, listening to musical inflections with words and cultural
mores unknown. Ignorance, he thought while driving slightly above the speed limit, is my infantile state.
A trip to City was exciting for the outlets it proffered his tempered, though boiling energies.
Lately the young man was at a rolling boil with his daily tasks. Regularity in both paychecks and shitting were good signs of longevity. Arrive home from work, dinner then read. He would visit friends many nights out of the week to watch films or meet at bars to practice pool. Sometimes he would reach a creative pentacle culminating in a quietude that allowed the raised wet fur on the beast to drip slowly. Then the chaos of an ink and wash drawing would crystallize and cure anxiety in a new, now visible form suggesting a randomly won reality, humanity, or sexuality. Humility for those times that suggestions were, knowingly to O., dimensionally a pun
of levels too heavy to explain textually.
In Hinduism, Akupara is a tortoise who carries the world on his back. O. carries a world foggy
with boundaries heavy, ambiguous.
"Akupara" he reflects with thoughts of skyscrapers stacked.
Traveling the country rapidly towards an early morning arrival -roughly five in the morning- the low-lying forests and farm houses exchanged with shopping plazas and mega-super-maximum-stripmall-heavenly storefronts, illuminating! Then to skyscrapers. "What about the cow that stands all dull day in the yard? Is his presence unnoticed due to his docility? The incoming image is great! All hands on dic-, er-, DECK! This unit is connective, receiving transmission,
a motor heart transmission direct from mission command." O. thoughts swiftly made a harp on the [idea] traveling through the City Brain Corrective Route 334-890A. As the approach of City became imminent the usual faultless portrayal of logic and causality began to obscure, making the young citizen disoriented and fearful. What would come of these fragmented impressions? These overwhelming trash heaps of the commercial landscape, red herrings of the soul externalized to collective sway of the masses. What will happen?
*image by tadashi moriyama