scanning the floor for leftover appendages.
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| Spooky Stole My Noodle scanning the floor for leftover appendages. |
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Wednesday, January 28, 2004 windshields Not right now, can't. Sorry there's this cookie crumble layer of ice, under the snow on the windshield. There's this, not cookie, it doesn't cookie, it's not sugary sweet. There's this brittle candy, hard-tack layer of ice under the snow on the windshield. On the side windows. Across the expanse of the whole vehicle.Not right now. There's nothing like consensual ignorance to lighten up the weight pressing on the brain. There's a limited amount of surface area there. You could argue that it's fractal, that really it's unlimited, that surface area. But either way it's all contained in that same small volume of fluidity, floating there, yet resting solid against that stem. The soda can sprayed its contents all over. The thing was less than half full at the time, and just pulled itself through my hand to smack, hard, on the surface of the desk. Contents on my sleeve, on the screen, on the trackball. Didn't tip over, just shot skyward and failed to reach whatever goal it probably had in mind. Such is the life of a beverage, caught forever in a composite can, forever until the light comes in after that piercing hiss of the opening tab. Then it works together to find a way to pull the can to the surface, hard, attack the thing like a bomb, exploding out in a groundless faith. A beverage won't ever reach the sky that way, not in a billion trillion lifetimes, but no drink can know that, there is no proof. Not right now, just this. The damp sleeve wants some closure. This cassette came in the mail with this Edward Gray on it, and in the ice or snow or. The tubes that deposit the liquid onto the windhshield are disconnected from the wipers, both of them. The mist from the surface being torn away and left to land on countless windshields just sticks there, all morning, and the liquid in those tubes launches wild away from the direction of travel. A small section of clean but a larger section of worse-for-it, so I'm hunched over peering just above the wheel never seeing potholes that jump from the surface and try to tear the suspension out from underneath me. Hold me down under near freezing water's surface and I won't drown, the cold lowers the heart rate the brain really doesn't need oxygen in absolute zero. Finite surface or no there're worlds afloat in that amniosis. He sang near falsetto some lines about small consolations. There are scraps of paper in the envelope, too much tape. I scratched and pulled until it all spilled out to play me isolation beneath the opacity of the crusted, cracked windshield. How my fingers twitch and twist the string around the insides of that car. Anything spectral, any sequence accepted. You could have an infinity of patterns of movement of one point starting anywhere inside there and proceeding in steps to only other adjoining points. Yet that infinity is smaller than another. On the sides of the highway are hazard lights flashing and men with fists pounding glass, frustrated that they cannot see to move ahead. The air freezes anything on the surface upon which it lands. We stay still and frozen and watching one another working our way through never repeating patterns but always ending up in the same place. The soda is flat now in that can, having expended all of its energy in that pitiful attempt to escape gravity. posted by Kingo Sleemer | 2:27 PM |
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