What if I wasn't meant to be a proliferator, but a protagonist protracting the peril of extinction through the destruction of our dear devilish ways and focusing on sustainable development of defamation as opposed to the breakneck breakdown of moral fabric culminating in the oft scorned web 2.0 culture, as a medium for global conjoining of nihilism and me-tooism that would eventually culminate in a savage outburst of repression nearly as ridiculously out of proportion as a Muslim holy man lifting his wife's skirt on the tram.
What if it's not the time to be powerful. What if the motto of the new world should be "simple is safe."
What if the habits of my hermitage aren't simply arbitrary, but a sign of a greater and deeper wisdom, seen mostly by myself and my compatriots as madness.
Well I say, madness? This is Urban spirituality, such as it is.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
The secret of the streets
Ladies and gentlemen, I've cracked it. The code of the cement jungle, the sidewalk slang. I have finally found the beating heart of this urban sprawl, not in the pulsing bass of the club district, nor the armani shuffling of the business sector. Not in the paper parade of city hall, or the gentle humm of the power stations. The heart of it all is the market.
No where else can you see hipster and hippy, business man and bint rubbing elbows and clamoring for the same esoteric tidbits that we all thrive on. The dragon fruit pies and the chimichangas with that extra bit of changa. The folded wraps and the beer on tap, the care worn bags and a dress that drags, and all the little things you can't find anywhere else.
We are united by our need for the unique, for that which is chic yet timeless. Those rare few objects that permeate the bounds of the class structure and bring us all some measure of joy, and bring us together in the search for that last bit of humanity we all share.
The dull buzz of the crowd grows, syncs up, and creates a melody like no other. People speaking, shifting, singing and breathing all as one, yet each their own. This is the pulse of the city, the warm glow that circulates through every district and every home. This is where the city finds it heart, and breathes joy into the rest of it's quivering mass.
Thus is life.
No where else can you see hipster and hippy, business man and bint rubbing elbows and clamoring for the same esoteric tidbits that we all thrive on. The dragon fruit pies and the chimichangas with that extra bit of changa. The folded wraps and the beer on tap, the care worn bags and a dress that drags, and all the little things you can't find anywhere else.
We are united by our need for the unique, for that which is chic yet timeless. Those rare few objects that permeate the bounds of the class structure and bring us all some measure of joy, and bring us together in the search for that last bit of humanity we all share.
The dull buzz of the crowd grows, syncs up, and creates a melody like no other. People speaking, shifting, singing and breathing all as one, yet each their own. This is the pulse of the city, the warm glow that circulates through every district and every home. This is where the city finds it heart, and breathes joy into the rest of it's quivering mass.
Thus is life.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Buckshot
A single drop of sweat seeking the Earth was the only motion for what felt like miles, the smoke seeming to have frozen in a grim polaroid of that time-shattering shot. I couldn't feel my legs. For that matter, I couldn't feel anything. It was the sort of paralyzing chill that you feel when you're late for your own wedding, but I'd just ruined my tux to boot. There was nothing on me, to be sure. He went down a good fifty yards ahead, but I felt dirty. I saw the stain on my hands. They say it gets easier, and I pray they are right, because next time it won't be a buck.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Nocturnal
So earlier today I was referred to as nocturnal.
I'm not really sure how I feel about that.
No, wait, I am. I like it. Gives me an air of sophistication beyond the irreverent and often snide bouts of sardonic quips. I mean, it can't really be a bad thing right? I live in a large city, my work schedule falls into the time most people spend decompressing from their day and getting ready to go out, so by the time my shift ends I'm on the tram headed towards whatever lair of debauchery and lewd conduct my mates chose to visit that evening.
I suppose what my point here is, why is it that people are most obviously alive at night, and still not known as nocturnal, but I myself, who lives, works, and plays in the dark am some form of special separate creature. It can't be that uncommon, living more at night than during the day.
Besides, it's not my fault your day star is trying to burn me to death. Hands up if you want to be exposed to a giant flaming ball with the ability to blind you for looking at it funny.
I'm not really sure how I feel about that.
No, wait, I am. I like it. Gives me an air of sophistication beyond the irreverent and often snide bouts of sardonic quips. I mean, it can't really be a bad thing right? I live in a large city, my work schedule falls into the time most people spend decompressing from their day and getting ready to go out, so by the time my shift ends I'm on the tram headed towards whatever lair of debauchery and lewd conduct my mates chose to visit that evening.
I suppose what my point here is, why is it that people are most obviously alive at night, and still not known as nocturnal, but I myself, who lives, works, and plays in the dark am some form of special separate creature. It can't be that uncommon, living more at night than during the day.
Besides, it's not my fault your day star is trying to burn me to death. Hands up if you want to be exposed to a giant flaming ball with the ability to blind you for looking at it funny.
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