23 Mar 2010

arise, chicken!

It's that club, in NYC dream geometry, where they beat you up for being a fag before you go in, even if you're straight. The club hires fag beaters for that purpose, it establishes your credibility. They all had to go through it, those celebrity patrons. Try it, you'll realize you aren't made of glass. Or throw away that golden ticket, we'll gild another one and give it to an orphan. If she can do it then so can you. It's just a matter of capitalizing on luck, by taking a beating, then they'll let you in the club. Where you'll suddenly see the possibility of being on an even keel with those artists who make piles of money, and some of them, infuriatingly younger, even a few of them local, gone nonlocal - well, now you're all initiates, but it will take some humiliating lessons before you learn the difference that remains between you and them. Like when that famous guitar player corrects you on your fingering of a difficult passage of Beethoven's Rondo a Capriccio - try not to act all surprised and draw attention to yourself, did you really believe the rich and famous artists are so soft and lite, they do nothing with their resources but show off their toys to MTV camera crews? Did you want to believe that so bad? So, you'll see that the gap is even wider beyond those doors, the acceleration of multidisciplinary studies, and as an afterthought, the aging process is quite a bit slower, but nevermind that for now.

Why am I writing this? Call it a Korean tea ceremony. Cigarettes were all I had. This is where the willpower really matters, where the rubber meets the road. Energy is mass times the speed of light squared. Zeno says the arrow never reaches worth. It's not worth the walk to get a bottle of energy drink.

Succumbing is becoming a numbing comfort, the only thing worth anything. There's a glut of sunrays on the outside, they'd do me good in theory - first principles regime, god save the queen - still superstitious, i'm not praying for anything, lest apocalypse begin - will work for food, will increase energy efficiency - what? no? no place for me - understood - it will make my family unhappy for me, stretch the boundaries of charity yet again, but, oh wait a second, i gotta take this call.

Tea don't do it for me anymore. Maybe it's this deck of contexts. In 2013, I bought my first NYC loft. I paid for it by coming up with a new euphemism for masturbation. They said it couldn't be done, but I did it. Scientifically. I used a million monkeys. Even more remarkably, I'd nearly forgotten what orgasm felt like, but I remembered what it thought like. Consequently, I enjoyed the benefits of owning a multi-million dollar apartment. Status, that's all I'd really wanted, all along. Sure, I flirted with philanthropy, in my youth. I flirted with self-destruction in adolescence. They gave me a key to the ICBMs in adulthood. Thought they could trust me with it. I'd be the deciding vote. I couldn't believe it was real. It was a surreal strata of status, but it was a pure sky blue in every direction, they showed me the location of every silo, they showed me computer simulations of what would happen in this scenario, that one. To give a nom de plume a raison d'etre for its next novel, I, yi yiyiiih. Which way to the furnace? Everything must burn.

4 comments:

Anonymous said...

salty font has gone tiny, i can't see. it may be the ice in my drink. what the fuck? - t

Anonymous said...

trust me - there are no hungry women. can u just please come check it out? ~ t

Anonymous said...

never mind. sorry to disturb. : ) it something with my laptop. sorry.

Hector the Crow said...

i'm already disturbed, you can't disturb me any further - glad you figured it out