letters to a friend: part I

Dear Screams,

Well, I officially have no one to talk to now except for you and my best friend Rosalind who lives far away and my cats who don't speak my language. That's alright. Who needs human companionship? I've decided to denounce humans all together as pathetically weak at best and pathetically evil at worst, and I'm fully siding with nature in that eternal war. And, by the way, when I sat down with nature to go over the details of our alliance, we decided that we're taking music with us. Humans can't have music despite being its creator. Music, nature and me against the rest of humanity sans Rosalind who I'll accept as neutral. Alright, were taking wine, too.

Fine! So, I'm too nice of a person to become outright hostile. Crawling into a hole is more my style. I know operation drop out was supposed to start a few months ago but I got side-tracked by hope: a teaching job that has now ended. So, operation drop-out is now back in full swing. I only have to fake it just a little bit longer in order to support my nasty food and shelter habit. Today I've started practicing, though, by purchasing a disconnection device. I think it's called an MP3 player but I was never good at identifying different species of horrible technologies. I've found it really helps to keep one firmly embedded in one's own head. The apathetic traffic doesn't seem so contemptible when Mahler is blasting in your ear. Tearing apart the turtle-lynching holes of a plastic six-pack holder that some asshole left on the pavement is much more dramatic during a Brahms symphony. Yes, despite my rock n roll roots lately I've just been blasting the classical.

Look, Screams, it wasn't my choice. I tried to operate in this farcical tragedy of errors that humans call technological progress or civilization or whatever, but I just keep getting shit upon. I can't do it any more. I'm tired. I was cursed with a recalcitrant brain that just wants to sense and feel and love and create all of the time. I've had it with human indifference and human frailty. To this end, I guess I was fortunate enough not to be born into abject poverty or a warzone, but unfortunate enough to be born into a society that doesn't seem to value the things that I value.

 I have to go find my home.

I'll keep you posted, Screams.

Love, Lara.

ApproachingZero:Get a Life!

t

The fable of the field

 

In the morning the field was asleep,

Crickets hummed, but only just enough.

The tune was captured by the lull of steady wind

Massaging the whispering tufts

Of grass.

 

The humble frogs hardly boasted

The dragonflies dawdled and swayed

Occasionally flicking their fragile wings

And dreaming of more dormant days

They rested on their tender reeds.  

 

The chrysalis blended with the blossoms

The butterflies preferring to linger before they flew

Patiently pressing relaxed quantities

Of their metamorphic dew.

Into thick drops.

 

The bees buzz was muted,

As the popping bubbles of the lazy creek

They paused on comfortable petals

Sipping a sumptuous treat

From a bloom.

 

 

The eastern sun illuminated an immense form in the distance,

It was you.

You were singing and waving furiously,

Stomping with thudding boots.

Towards the snoozing field that curiously

Opened one wary eye

And watched you come closer.

As you approached your wild arms whipped up a wind

So powerful that the grass thrashed like a frenzied loom

Shaking off the butterflies.

Tossing them from their blooms,   

They rose together like a cloud of steam in revelation

As if from a boiling kettle,

Elated by their elevation.

Into the noonday sun.  

 

The song sent sharp ripples across the pond

The frogs pumped up their balloons

Then broke into obstreperous chorus

Matching your frequency with tunes

In harmony.

 

The dragonflies tumbled from their bouncing reeds,

Righted themselves in midair,

Discovered their wings were fashioned for speed,

And took off in daring flight

The disturbance prodded the crickets

To pull their forewings tight

Grinding them forcefully.

The bees swarmed together

To compete with the ruckus

Of the suddenly turbid creek.

 

 Just before sunset you reached the western edge,

Your formidable shadow smothered the churning grass.  

First depleting its color,

Then the giant boot came down with a smash  

Snapping the cricket’s tender bows.

Broken stalks stuck in the tread as it rose

And smashed again.

 

The blow splashed the water out of the pond,

Drenching the butterflies,

Their heavy, soaked wings sent them plummeting to the earth,

Their paper bodies

Dissolved in the dirt.

 

The suffocating frogs flapped feebly

Along the cracked crevices of the thirsty hole.

The dried bed littered with desiccated bees

The dragonflies lost their orientation

Flinging themselves upon the parched stones.

You left the field without looking back,

Then, now whistling, marched over the hill,

And who knows why?

You were swallowed up

By the black curtain sky.

The Hedonists

Where are all the hedonists?
Hiding in the urban weeds?
Lashing their flesh with prickles and
Stinging nettles
Desire numbed by humming bees.

Are they stuck in the suburbs?
Squeezed by the narrow sphincters
Of the properly engaged
Sterilizing themselves with
Lawnmower blades.

Are they holed up in the mountains?
Weathered faces whittled like stakes
They pound the frozen land
Until it breaks
Her curves held tightly in her wintery hands.

This spirit sprints across an empty beach
Collapses on her back
Unable to catch her breath
Fiddling with her broken straps,
Then she moves along through the night alone
Wondering where the hedonists
Have gone.

living is the new lazy

"Um, excuse me, ma'am, I'm, um, over there folding laundry and, well, the problem is that there is this guy on the television who is, um, s-screaming at me t-to buy his vacuum cleaner, and, um, I'm just wondering if there is anyway I can, um, change the channel?"

 

"No, ma'am"

 

"T-there's no way to change the channel?"

 

"No, ma'am."

 

"W-well, then can we at least turn it down?"

 

"No, ma'am."

 

"Okay. How about off?"

 

She gives me a look that says "lady, you've gone to far" and I walk away laughing at the absurdity of a television without any controls, like a house without doors, or a plate with no bottom. I return to my cramped corner, wedged between the walls of spinning dryers, surrounded by churning sounds, the repetitive mechanical music from the video games, the tuneless singing of a restless child as he plays vigorously with a joystick, the thud of a coke popping out of a vending machine, all of it enveloped by the booming voice of the excited, screaming bald man on the television above me. There is no escape. I cower as I try to focus on getting the job done as quickly as possible, folding sloppily, my auditory senses under assault, an electric autonomic storm. I am tempted to rip my socks apart or search through the garbage for dryer lint: anything to stuff into my ears. I am, in short, freaking out.

 

 I feel like a stranger in a strange land as I look around at the patrons, their faces pensive as they calmly fold their clothing. Nobody seems bothered by the loud, incessant infomercial, rendered even more obnoxious when it fades out, seeming as though it will finally end, only to return for another round, another phase, now a brisk, sensible sounding woman with very nice clavicles insisting that a person should clean the area behind her stove and refrigerator more often because, let's face it, it's GROSS.  "I don't really care," I mutter bitterly and at least one person smiles.

 

Emboldened by this hint of camaraderie I am tempted to say more. I am tempted to throw down my underwear, seize the television woman by her petite cashmere sweater and blast at her the assertion that I clean that particular spot in my apartment once and only once: when I move out! If I move out in a year I'll clean it then! If I move out in ten years, I'll clean it then! If I die in this apartment, it will not get done! I do not need a special tool to do this: another piece of plastic that will wind up someday in the throat of an albatross or the gut of a whale! I'll simply move the stove and the refrigerator out from the wall, utter a few obligate phrases of surprise like "Oh, THAT'S where that went to", or "my god that's gross!" and get busy with a few old fashion tools that have served me well: a rag, a broom, vinegar, maybe a paint scraper if I've lived there long enough. These items work just fine and they always have, they always will! When is it going to occur to you people that more is almost always less: less time, less money, less fulfillment, you name it. The more you have, the more miserable you are!

 

This, of course, is the source of my rage. A feeling that my country's quality of life is eroding away because the capitalists and their wily minions have conned us into believing that we need things, in the process, robbing us of what really counts. This feeling becomes more pronounced with each passing year, for some reason usually around the receding Christmas season. They've been doing it so long and with such careful calculation I feel like the acclimating frog in a pot of boiling water, we've barely even noticed how ridiculous it has become: the rewards and the points and the holiday decorations, and the endless renovation projects and updates and oh god, whatever else we are bombarded with, as though we should be spending all of our time shopping, looking for deals, and no time actually living our lives. 

It seems to me that the main defense of industrialism is that it brings us more leisure time when in fact it enslaves us, keeping us always in a frenzy of business, and always producing as much toxic waste as possible. The Christmas season the best example, but all year round the television tells us insidious lies: that a good mother is a stressed mother, that a good family provides lots of gadgets and plastic toys for their children, that a carpet is a beautiful, pristine place to roll around on and not a nasty petri dish that makes cleaning a nightmare, that the human body smells bad and therefore needs to be slathered in carcinogens every day, that the sensory experience of making and drinking coffee in the morning is a total hassle, an inconvenient means to the goal, which is, of course, getting to work.

 

Think about it, people. It's the other way around.

 

Maybe nobody buys any of it. Maybe everyone's a cynic like me, or they are better at ignoring it, but it appears to me if it wasn't working, the capitalist machine would not try to mold the American soul with such precision. They've obviously done the research. They know that people doing crazy dances is the best way to get our attention: a habit extending back to the lure of the village dance, once telling us stories and strengthening community ties, now selling us everything from hamburgers to packing boxes. They have the power to manipulate with neuroscience on their side. They know that humans are visual and emotional. If they have enough people in their commercials looking content as they ride their bicycles through the park, watching their child play in the sandbox, arranging flowers, having a loving moment with their spouse, that the list of gory side-effects droning on in the background will not register.

 

To the capitalists I say this: I have dodged you. You haven't sucked me into your culture of death where nature is the enemy. I know what matters. Time, love, trees, animals, friendship, art, music, serenity, knowledge, health: things you cannot package in a piece of Styrofoam. Dirty is clean. A giant immaculate house is a dirty house, polluting the air and water. A beautiful yard is a wild yard full of flowers and beasts, like Eden. Stress is not good for my body and I refuse to be busy. I will not live to work and I will not feel guilty about not giving meaningless gifts. Every event does not need to be celebrated in the company of metallic balloons that sea turtles mistake for jellyfish. I know how to express love without these things.

 

And I will not clean the area behind my stove and refrigerator until I move out. Take that you capitalist swines.

Approaching Zero: Double Dog FIRED!

 

ApproachingZero: Snevermore!