In a busted office chair that spins around, a youngish guy slowly turned back and forth, legs crossed
indian-style. He was staring at a mostly white screen doing some sort of a post to his blog.
He titled it, 'Sitting down at his lily pad' and spoke to the fat sleeping dog on the floor behind him as he typed.
"Yeah, it's been a while since this place was bustling with that rare toss off and color exchange, the ethereal thing I was trying to do here. So when I came across a stash of art I'd done in that period, that non getting-my-period period for me, yeah adolescence, I thought, hey, I want to share this - I would have loved to then, you know? Before you were even a dog."
Across the room, not far off from that mid-size snoring beast, sat a stack of pictures, drawings, small pieces of cardboard, all of which had some certain theme to them. A voice that silently made a space for a call to look at this world we're in for one goddamn second more, please. Or something quite like that, except with more of a visual reference to heavy vomit mint-green curtains with plastic backings and steel clasps. These had been selected from otherwise voiceless crap.
Feeling a bit frustrated at his momentarily stressed communication skills, the guy began to ask himself, how come I can write good stuff in my comments on
DC's blog but not here? He was probably wondering that because he had realized he had just written two things there which were more enjoyably then what he was
writing now.
Typing sporadically, he wrote what he felt would be the end of this post,
"I mean, this place is a real boon to a post-boomer's ex-baby like me, in this ex-post facto boom town, Spanish for ash tree. Or hell, go more meta, I can do that, into the partially post-physical space of blogger, out of the very real ex-post facto boom crown of Goo... I mean, if that's you're idea of a good time, because if it is, well I was so alone when I was making some of this art years ago, that when this girl I was chatting to, on the phone no less, joked about me calling popcorn just to have someone to call, because she was worried I spent too much time on my own and was trying to lighten the mood by saying things like that, but I mean, she was right on the money of the no money that I had in that fleeting space of locked-up trust fund social currency. But, she must have done that too. In between inviting me to a lunch I missed, and going to every extra-curricular thing possible including being a cheerleader and studying the literary merits of placing theatre in the context of quantum physics, or whatever it was that one morning when I spotted her in the hall and said hi, and got her number."
"I used to have so many friends."
"I understand that you want to take me and lock me up. But can't you just look up my dress like a regular weirdo? Come on, it's a nice dress. Then you can go home and do whatever it is you do there, and I can stay here."
"If I was a fish I could swim anywhere. I could have fish sex, what's that like? I think it's pretty devoid of physical contact. That could be good, maybe. I'd lay a bunch of eggs not just somewhere, but in the best somewhere I could find. A special somewhere with rocks that didn't look like they'd one day end up in a castle's garden."
In a busted office chair that spins around, a youngish guy slowly turned back and forth, legs crossed indian-style. He was staring at a mostly white screen doing some sort of a post to his blog.
