Billy, the protagonist, has a pretty darn good little system. He has mapped out a circuit of thrift stores, dollar stores, and damn it, even a few main stream grocery stores, same kind normal folks shop for their food at. At which Billy buys, programatically, only the least costly and most nutritious foods. He has a rather nice wardrobe assembled from the cast offs at the Goodwill store on East Ohio Street, as well as from Walmart and Kmart, by mail order and bus transit respectively. And Billy has a roof over his head when he's at home, because he's a smart shopper, and he bought himself a shot-up former crack house, for pennies on the dollar, just in case you still put dollar signs next to real estate. Billy doesn't do that, because it is utility and not social status that moves this little man's actions. He is, till hell heats up a few degrees hotter, living within his means.
He is not completely stupid. Near enough, though, by relativity and the force of economy and culture. He is stupid by proximity, because the cognitive elite vacated the slums so long ago. People have only vague recollections of the high achieving families that used to fill the houses on Billy's street in Pittsburgh's North Side. Should it occur to Billy that the doors to his perceptions flew open for a few seconds while riding the bus to the grocery store, it could only be brain shit, as if he was deciding if he needed to get a hair cut or noting in mind one of so many petty annoyances that no pedestrian can help being a part of. All unifying principles fit through the slot in the top of a glass piggy bank the size of an avacado, and once put in, they can't be taken out and used. Billy has a frozen bank account full of social theories saved up from the early nineteen sixties, going forward, till around 1999, afterwhich public confidence in man's ability to rise above grunt labor, brutality and ignorance suffocated in an invisible vault. Petend, for just long enough to feel something, that it could matter what goes on inside Billy's head.
The round headed bobo in his yellow baseball cap has been thinking. Fuck 'em.
2. Poison Ivy: a door to perception
He's been out of sorts. Low energy level, poor concentration, and the hell-knowlege of knowing what needs to happen, when he is too sucked out to raise a load in his mind and bust a nut on his word processing program. He still has the reeds that grow along the marshlands in his battered head. He has a a rash.
It's more than that, it's red itching bumps scattered on his hot corpus assholeum. He itches all over, yet there is no geometry to it, at least none discernable. Until he breaks a sweat. In the hottest hours of the afternoon, walking down Cedar Avenue, he breaks a sweat, and all the itching bumps he has been scratching at, furtively, sting. The moisture makes his pre-existing discomfort seem germy and infectious, though he's just another harmless piece of shit, no danger to anyone.
The layer of sweat does something for him, like the way a good fresh coat of varnish brings out the grain in wood, giving it greater richness and a sense of depth. The perspiration makes the rash on his chest, riding up to the right collar bone and onto his chicken neck, more distinctly the shape of an uncharted continent. All the rest of the day the rash was only itch, but with enhancement, it took shape, form and meaning. And this without Billy having to look in the mirror to see it. He could feel the shape of his poison ivy as it painted it's mural on his skin. Billy noted a change within him for having percieved the itch, the sweat, the sting and the new-found association with a place unknown. He realizes that man was made to go exploring, and has no place left in which to do. He goes inside himself, unless he just marries, has kids, and sends his poor ass to an early grave working the night shift at the McDonalds on Wood Street. He's been looking at the way of dying for years and years now, and is resolute about dying alone, with his values unmolested. His tiny ships are sailing toward the country his rash took the shape of.
He is not completely stupid. Near enough, though, by relativity and the force of economy and culture. He is stupid by proximity, because the cognitive elite vacated the slums so long ago. People have only vague recollections of the high achieving families that used to fill the houses on Billy's street in Pittsburgh's North Side. Should it occur to Billy that the doors to his perceptions flew open for a few seconds while riding the bus to the grocery store, it could only be brain shit, as if he was deciding if he needed to get a hair cut or noting in mind one of so many petty annoyances that no pedestrian can help being a part of. All unifying principles fit through the slot in the top of a glass piggy bank the size of an avacado, and once put in, they can't be taken out and used. Billy has a frozen bank account full of social theories saved up from the early nineteen sixties, going forward, till around 1999, afterwhich public confidence in man's ability to rise above grunt labor, brutality and ignorance suffocated in an invisible vault. Petend, for just long enough to feel something, that it could matter what goes on inside Billy's head.
The round headed bobo in his yellow baseball cap has been thinking. Fuck 'em.
2. Poison Ivy: a door to perception
He's been out of sorts. Low energy level, poor concentration, and the hell-knowlege of knowing what needs to happen, when he is too sucked out to raise a load in his mind and bust a nut on his word processing program. He still has the reeds that grow along the marshlands in his battered head. He has a a rash.
It's more than that, it's red itching bumps scattered on his hot corpus assholeum. He itches all over, yet there is no geometry to it, at least none discernable. Until he breaks a sweat. In the hottest hours of the afternoon, walking down Cedar Avenue, he breaks a sweat, and all the itching bumps he has been scratching at, furtively, sting. The moisture makes his pre-existing discomfort seem germy and infectious, though he's just another harmless piece of shit, no danger to anyone.
The layer of sweat does something for him, like the way a good fresh coat of varnish brings out the grain in wood, giving it greater richness and a sense of depth. The perspiration makes the rash on his chest, riding up to the right collar bone and onto his chicken neck, more distinctly the shape of an uncharted continent. All the rest of the day the rash was only itch, but with enhancement, it took shape, form and meaning. And this without Billy having to look in the mirror to see it. He could feel the shape of his poison ivy as it painted it's mural on his skin. Billy noted a change within him for having percieved the itch, the sweat, the sting and the new-found association with a place unknown. He realizes that man was made to go exploring, and has no place left in which to do. He goes inside himself, unless he just marries, has kids, and sends his poor ass to an early grave working the night shift at the McDonalds on Wood Street. He's been looking at the way of dying for years and years now, and is resolute about dying alone, with his values unmolested. His tiny ships are sailing toward the country his rash took the shape of.
No comments:
Post a Comment