Heaviest Tea Mayor, Page 39.
All this leads me to a thesis: We have outgrown classic cinema. But we are also too immature for it.
Posted by dean
at 01:19 AM
At First, It Was Kind Of Hard, But Annoying, And The Plaster Was Dropping Off Bits Of White On Her Keyboard From The Floor Above.
Music and books and fights and flights and hallway passes -- they really did like each other for years.
Nobody knew how the two of them almost never spoke, with rare times of well-timed mutual urge, but she didn't care. Once, through a rest-top slit, pretending to get sick, the same low-budget movie head-flashed between them, and she was invulnerable, for a while, and left an artificial i.d. under his windshield for three weeks.
The building's shut-off hallway elevators began to audio-pipe proper boiler-chapped sub-bass now, sharking the rooms with naughty-grammar Scotland pleasure garage, trying to roll apart her typing.
Damien was the first, with the alphabetical '80s videogame collection. Josh was everywhere in the twenties when he used early-morning flower-shop delivery jobs to avoid kissing her on the mouth. There was an exchange-girl called Logo who ate fried food and spent all her money on spraypaint poetry.
Under the door, someone had slipped a yellow piece of paper. "Everybody But You Is Suffering," it said in large sans-serif above a comic-strip face of a washing-powder howler monkey.
As their lives began to randomize around each other, the two of them folded into sync. They talked through tea-leaved, air-tossed newspaper clippings, closed-circuit cameras -- red-herring times and (oh!) obvious evidence -- and revealed everything while coffee-watching casual men adjust the wiring in their ears. He once told her his favourite bands by inserting it into every other word of a natural disaster broadcast.
The room was filled with pre-worn clothes and grocery bags and small furniture. The balcony glass was open. It looked like somebody actually lived here.
She'd justified the rest of her time by looking up street addresses and anagrams, but it was worse to stop.
Inside, a recorded voice told the ventilation system to examine its breast for lumps and over-complicated neon signs flashed on the surface of the shallow walls, telling the housing block to think about somebody else for a change.
They only saw each other in person anymore.
It said a lot that the people she saw in the car windows and apartment traffic in a half-place of a city and suburbs looked to live without a decent cushion of mental insurance, at least not enough to get arrested, but the idea fell down into her circle of friends that they should take vague control, in total quiet but out in the open, using bank-man bribes and gruesome bootleg gender-alterations to people of the press, depressed transit workers, and mortgage-handling mom 'n' pops in the middle of the night, change-cracking down the spine of the somewhat-city where things felt loud and long and everybody would eventually do whatever they never really bothered to do in the first place. They just wanted to know what it was like. Of course, she expected they'd get caught, like they always have, with soda-pop marketing saturation, but the escape plan would be brilliant fun, written in braille underneath a south asian prison back-tattoo, and they'd run off for somewhere else, the start of a cross-country road-trip of confidence-ruining world hope and huge contradiction, looking for him, making all-bets that nobody would ever get what they thought was the joke.
Posted by dean
at 11:00 PM