Thursday, 29 November 2012


You leave the store, fresh air, outside. Hunched, low to the ground, eyes eating hungrily at the burning distance. Here we are again, that same burning distance - those same oil fired trees reaching up to where the horizon leans down. You can feel a tightly clenched shopping bag in your right hand... it's cream-yellow thrush colour mixing with the orange of the sunlight and the red of your hand to formulate a full gradient of phoenix colour. The woman walking next to you doesn't have anything to say. The car park is quiet. The last character in the consumer outlet store's name forms a dark black curve upon this one colour clear sky... A last trolly dances seductively in the eternal light, a woman tugs at her jumper and removes it. The trolley objectifies it's prey. A small screwed up sheet drifts sluggishly across the view. Black character's are all you can see in this light and luckily as with the store, all is printed in this exact colour; THIS ARE ALWAYS STORIES AT END WORLD. The language is wrong, you know it, the writer must have known it. Sadist. Sat alone in his bedroom, hand in his pants printing all kinds of non-grammatically correct sentences and pasting them sperm-coated into the evening breeze. Another woman has just passed on the left, a fragment of blue cinema shrieks out of her poised lips. You wonder what you are still doing in this car park having realized the blood supply to your hand has long since been cut off - your hand now forming a streak of squid ink void blue against the orange sky. It is very beautiful. Your weeks supply of chicken hot pot noodle did this. You wonder why there are so many women leaving the supermarket with the big black "O" at this time of night and why they are so turned on. Thinking of pleasure... your eyes drift back again to the screwed up paper, it's now on it's side mating with another piece of the trash. You haven't eaten and it's getting late. 


She was the a simulated image of the post-second world war cinema, a signifier for that time when America was the producer of 50% of the world's goods. I cannot answer as to whether this metaphor of beauty lived in the Americas or whether she lived some place else. It was not night, it was the beginning of time - It was morning. The birth of a new era. All I could see from my place behind the palm tree was the arch of her breasts in a metallic red swimming costume, latex in it's appearance but conservative in cut. Two breasts, reaching towards the sky and through the glass frame surrounding the edges of the swimming pool like the two plateaus in Thomas Cole's The Course of Empire, one breast seeming to be further away then the other. She arched her back and I was surprised to see her in daylight. The water ahead of her was not the colour I remembered it to be, later she told me that she had had to fire her pool staff in this floating ocean village she called home. Nor was the water turning the expected green one would expect from a pool not maintained. The water was the colour of lucozade. Nobody swam in it, though nobody had before, but now her guests made the point to you that they wouldn't swim in it.. It was burning orange. The orange light bending back upon the glass walls and thus refracting endlessly within this space, creating a heavy atmosphere - an atmosphere of an inbetween time. A perma-sunset controlled by a woman's loss of an income. Perhaps this is why I now found her out in daylight. From outside of the glass walls of the swimming pool - we found ourselves in clear day but when one crossed the threshold - the dark orange began to filter in. To hang in the air, pushing against the chest and temples, one felt a fever begin. But she lay there. I had only ever seen her at sunset in the real world and I suppose that despite the sweats that was why she was here whenever I came around. We did not speak. I watched her from behind the palm tree, a good two hundred centimeters from the edges of the water. As she waited, arching her breasts in that plateau formation for the sunset to end. 


The suit grabbed his hand. The sun was setting, platinum hair, the visible signifiers of a time left, rubble known only by it's dust. Beneath traveling at four miles per hour lies the just deceased carcass of a newly built office walkway, a corridor in, from, and to nowhere. Somewhere there is a corporate hum, but not here under the blinding white and orange pallor. Somewhere there is a hum and he is looking again into the suits cold blue eyes, as if peering just beyond a veil of Jell-o. A deep glow, perspiring weakness found in a handshake that runs too deep. THE EVENT. Straight pains, bit lip, an alien hand clasped over a scar running across the right hands last knuckle. Lucozade glow. A handshake from a time when reality was only just losing it's grip. New York, a sun for the base of our spines and the piercing eyes of an opponent. And, a handshake like that can only be an inditement. Bit lip, platinum hair, New York, held breath. 

In a dream, I was a man with blonde hair and cool blue eyes in a close fitting ribbed t-shirt. A man underneath me in the armed forces had been severely injured... He gave me a copper coin which crumbled in half instantly. I placed an arm underneath him to carry him across a desert road, the last space of the real. He had rolled up camouflage trousers and dark skin. I worried that he would not make it across, and he died in my arms, in the middle of that dusty street. I was balancing history books on the top of my head, then I looked up, to see the mall. 


And although my parents lived in England, we dreamt of Disneyland. A grand Chrysler Voyager - bottle green... Just like in Disneyland. I'd run my hand along the warm camel coloured leather listening to Linkin Park in the back seat and place two fingers into each of the fourteen cup holders... Too many cup holders to ever have need of. We came home to a space filled with Macintosh, Santa Clara Valley lived in my living room - John Galt was my closest adolescent friend. The sun was not orange here as in a narrative, light was blue - the economy was strong. I was the first kid I knew who had an iPod, apple green like the Junior Voyager. We had to sell the car, I lowered my eye's and cried. Just like in Disneyland. 


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