Logical Unsanity

There’s this thing about concrete footpaths in Brisbane. If you start perambulating about on them over an extended period of time, your feet become compasses, each singular heel reading the literature of the streets. You learn rather hastily to avoid trudging in the gutters, where accumulations of silt and stale garbage aggregate, bringing that beauteous perfume of metropolitan sweat right to your kisser. See, people don’t stop to think in this city, not often enough; it’s all feet, feet, feet, like they’re living in a fucking Kerouac novella, or a marathon, or their heads; the bustle of the city coming on in an overwhelming din. It’s getting so that other peoples’ shopping trips, business meetings, dates, drug drop-offs are the soundtrack to my soul.

Read on…

You remind me of this guy I used to know.”

A man can dream, though, can’t he? No? Portugal was winning 2-0. That’s what I wanted. I wanted that. I was up in the air, cheering, on my feet, cheering, up in the air…that’s what I wanted?

“He had more gray in his hair, though, said his family aged young. Your hair looks fine, though. I like it like this, a nice dark brown. Do you dye it?”

Another round of the lager, yep, Guinness, keep it coming, thank you, please. That would be lovely.

“Have you ever been to California? It’s lovely, really.”

And I’m up on my feet, cheering.

Who scored?

“You’ve got the same eyes, you know. He said he had a younger brother. You got a brother? How old are you?
“Are you married?
“Have any kids?
“Where do you work?
“Where do you live?
“Are you listening to me?”
“Oh. No. Sorry. Excuse me.”

I pushed my way to the back, the little boys’ room, for all the little boys who snuck into local sold out bars at seven in the evening. The door made a little swooshing noise like an old fashioned saloon entrance. Swoosh. This bathroom ain’t got enough room in it for me.

The urinal was clean. The room was empty. Did I even have to pee? Did I even have to pee? Did I even have Read on…

The poet picked up his phone and began to type his text. But he didn’t send it to just one person, he sent it to several. Not the people he thought were smartest, not the people he thought were the most ’spiritual’ and not the people who would give him the most sympathy. Or empathy. He sent it to people who aren’t judgemental. People who might understand.

It read – “I’m so terrified of being ‘normal’ I’m tempted to join the multitudes of people who have stopped pretending to be sane. I don’t think anybody’s sane, we just find different ways to distract ourselves from our abnormalities – like jobs and gym memberships. This game I’m playing is old as sin but new to me, it’s called ‘get money’. It’s tiring but I have to admit, it’s less boring than it looks.”

He wasn’t sure why he sent it. Was it for a smart reply, or for spiritual advice, or for sympathy, empathy, or criticism? Maybe he wanted to be talked out of it. Read on…

Two of them stood at the precipice, gazes transfixed by the strange sight below. An overwhelming sense of inevitability hung over the situation, sucking the duo to a realm beyond the mundane. While one felt particularly glum, the other maintained wide eyes and breathed a well practiced air of optimism.

“So…” said the one who was glum “…that’s where it all comes from.”
“Ah… yep, that’s it my friend; the source of all your shit.”
“I should have known it’d be a giant anus.” Read on…

(typed up from handwritten pages)

Things pass into obscurity at this point. A haze made all the more terrifying by its seeming clarity. Memory persists, and lucidity is painfully bright. It seems all wrong.

My existence becomes a sum of riding waves and calms. The waves are sudden, unpredictable, uncontrollable, unresistable, and one is swept up in the fervour of it. You’d be terrified if you had time to consider your situation.

The calms however are torturous. Listlessness prevails, ennui grips your being. There is the horrifying sensation that there is something you should be doing but that you have forgotten. Boredom and anxiety, in this way, rule hand in hand. Read on…

Like lost scarves trailing on bicycleless bicycle stands. Filtering past
the millinery, sifting through old ladies let out with their allowances on days where I should be sleeping. Stop. That sound means you need to start a-walking.
You sir, are here. Here on this day when I believed I remembered vaguely your face in that window gurgling wine as if it were heaven in a glass and reminiscing about, about-about. There it was. Laid out all on the plate.
I forget the language in which I say stop.
We coalesce right there on the corner and become that street sign, that traffic light, that other other couple falling into each other’s eyes waiting for the green lights. Feeling through the air for a space to be, to keep looking ahead when you’re asked to part with something for someone that you can smell fifteen minutes ago. Read on…

I could see the purple dot amongst the green, far down below me. I lit up and quietly fell down, softly landing on the petals surface. My feet felt warmed as they gently slid across the soft carpet of fine hairs. I scanned the surrounds with my hexagonal vision… Further in front of me was a massive, clear object, that seemed to be alive. Its surface was constantly changing, and I could see things within its confines that were not for my eyes to behold.

Far above, the giant looked down at the lonely African violet flower, the first one to bud this year. She could barely make out a tiny flashing dot, next to a droplet of water, resting on a flat part of one of the petals…

Those things in the clear object… they changed me. I let my abdomen flash brightly… All around me, it was dark. The clear object responded… It liked energy, so it seemed, for it seemed to smile (although it had no mouth) as it absorbed my light, channelling it back out as visions.
Visions not for my eyes. Read on…

“Well, it’s mostly in my leg, doctor.”
“I see, I see.”
“You do?”
“Of course.”
“Right… just checking. Only… I’m not sure you can see much with that bag on your head.”
“What, this bag here?”
“Yes. The brown paper bag. The one on your head.”
“Why, I can see perfectly well, young man.”
“Good. Really, that’s good. Only… it’s got no eyeholes.”
“Well I’ve no eyes.”
“…I’m sorry?”
“Dear boy, whatever do they teach in schools these days? I don’t need eyes. Not to see.” Read on…

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

16:45?

wanna sleeeeeep.

snooze.

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

16:55?

snooze.

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

17:05?

snooze.

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

17:15?

work at 6.

wanna sleep got time.

snooze.

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

17:25?

just need clothes and out door. got time. sleep.

snooze.

that beeping

cell phone alarm.

17:35?

wanna sleeeeeep…

wait no

bus at 17:55.

need to put clothes on

walk to corner store

buy cigarettes and jolt

catch bus.

arrrrgggghhh no snooze. Read on…