"I'm not living with you. We occupy the same cage, that's all!"
Let's see... brain on ice this morning. Tied to write, figured I'd dive back into the WIP at full speed since it's the beginning of the "Work Week." Nothing came from that but two shits between three cups of coffee. Restless Leg Syndrome shook me from the couch, so I took a long walk. Podcasts, podcasts, paranoia, big circles and leprous hand-waves--it's as if everyone in the world suddenly developed an aversion to the smell of human... Ate a chicken sandwich and peeped the death toll. Read about Kanaima (murderer shamans) for research. Added some notes to novel file. Drove around, liquor store, park. There were more people than usual.
Every sunrise after the age of thirty is a dividend. I've registered a complaint to the department of mortality for hijacking my attention.
Static shot: street-level stairwell leading to subway station. Orange/yellow/black modernist painting on tunnel wall. Hordes of commuters stream down the steps, hastily. The stairway becomes congested. Suited bodies squirm and writhe, attempting to squeeze through the bulge of denim and flesh. The mass grows until the railing and wall disappear behind it. Now, the opening resembles a mouth mid-scream. Freeze frame. Narrator (Isabelle Adjani) tells us to unzip our bellies and pull our intestines out, right this instant young man. "It is ur, my dear young man. It is urrrrr..."
A concierge (crewcut, blue bowtie) holds up a sign. It says your name. You smile and approach. The concierge frowns and takes a step back. You notice the sign now says: PARALYSIS
Coronavirus is making just enough noise in my life to create a minor, all-day distraction. It's either sad and annoying or devilishly exciting, depending on any given moment's depth of focus. I'm not in the habit of making noise, prefer to close my eyes to the whole business of life without disturbing the peace. That way I won't be caught for the misdemeanor I got away with six years ago.
No comments:
Post a Comment