notes from news years

by practicalspactical

new years with the disco biscuits, my eyes starry, by myself at the front of the stage, things getting strange and heavy, but the sound sounded great, like I was in an echo chamber, or they were using some incredible three dimensional reverb — I was right in front of the stage — and I looked over and saw a kid, man, what’s the difference these days, a man dressed like a kid, going through people’s coats — in my reverie darkness, and assuming the worst, I wrote a story for him, of the man-child who goes to these shows and steals a wallets in order to eat — realizing that this was this creature’s role and purpose, this was what it did to eat — and what was my purpose — but I had no purpose, I was a watcher, this was my Carnival, my Festival, my License, but some people were working — for sure, for sure —

 on the other side of the barrier, a black man-child sits tripping hard, staring at glowsticks in his hands that he was making dance the danse macabre — was that this man-child’s purpose? Had someone fed him something to reduce him to this state, animal, his mind caged by bone and blotters, sitting there, forebrain gone?

 Or the fire jugglers after the show — this was their new years too, and they were working, throwing fire in the air to delight the crowds —

 The music was good — so good — insane — but distracted by the music, and then seeing through the music, the world in its dark strivings crystallized and betrayed a terrible terrible prison where rats in a wheel run endless circles, conditioned to press a button for daily bread and daily shocks, and the music distracts us from the work, the bone-crunching soul-crushing, the raking of shit, the farming of greener soylent, the grinding of bonemash —

Time. Time & Change. Frightening words. Love. Love too.

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