Tuesday, 12 March 2013


 He'd had it repeating for two hours so far, swirling hallucangentic images of a new economy built upon the archaeology of the present. Images of Indians pervaded his living room as I entered, shooing the dog away from my ankles and taking my usual place on the edge of the sofa. He offered me a trashed coke can, half-price from the big orange supermarket on the sprawling historic georgian streets. They didn't live in a georgian house though, these two. A house that science fiction had managed to predict, not the house of the future - but a house where the division lines between hospital and home were no longer visible. The swirling indians looked back at me, I think they were singing a song; as patterns, green and purple then blue and yellow swirled across the polygons of their faces and reflected back into the room. He didn't have a projector like the rest of us, preferring a thin plasma view of the world. A real-world slice and flashback to his boyfriends routes in neo-seoul. I always wondered why Seoul was called Seoul, especially when the malls began to install machines that through nine cameras glanced you over, predicted your personality and pointed you to the appropriate stores. It had rejuvenated the business - the malls had been in decline aside from the urban explorers with a taste for nostalgia, now, it was a game to see if the machine could guess your tastes. Queues began to line the lunch room again. But this guy, he wasn't from Seoul but Omaha. And, I wondered why he had such a monument to wealth in his living room only to use it to loop videos made by rich indians on preset webcams in New Delhi. Everyone I'd ever known had had projectors, the illusion of a widescreen with no substance - easily combustible. Images that floated above the surface of the object you pointed it towards, images that could bend in shape. But this guys images were static, a real, they inhabited their own spatial loci in the world - a chunk of high-tech Asia in the middle of our historic city. The sun began to set, piercing the clouds and making the room a giant orange aquarium. I watched him smoke dope with his boyfriend and yell at the dog. Whilst the indians like their deity counterparts swirled in multi-colour laughter, arms and faces dividing and re-surfacing at a rapid speed. The orange sunset lasted longer then usual.

 And I don't know what the shaman is trying to achieve... there isn't any light in this room - it's black.. well not a real black, but you know pretty much black. And the shaman is making my heart go all crazy and I feel like I'm going to puke. Actually I'm pretty sure I'm going to puke ... The shaman is still dancing in this undeground club and I can no longer feel the leather pushing up against my knees, I'm some place else. But my stomach hurts and my face feels feverish and the shaman won't stop fucking dancing. There is a smoke here that hangs on everything, pushing the dust of old customers up into the air as you slide down... In my case sliding down against the fucking booth against the back fucking wall as the Shaman spins so quick you can't decipher his shapes. I was wrong about the light actually, the light isn't black... Not black, an ink blue that seems to go fluorescent in the light when he comes too close shaking his breast tassels in a metaphor of nothing. It's that blue... You know. THAT BLUE. The blue of the portals to another reality. The blue that French guy is always talking about, not that guy, not the guy who wrote about portraits being portraits if he says so... No not that guy. The other one. The blue guy. I bet he was pretty fucking blue too, when he had a heart attack because he saw his face in a fucking moving picture. I'm feeling pretty much like him right now, the shaman doesn't give a shit though. He's still whirling round. How are the others watching him and not... going... like ... Out of their minds? If I stand up I'll lose the world and go crashing through the fucking ceiling to like... the neverending man. The light is void dark blue, or as our friends across the channel say le vide bleu. And although I know there are other people in this joint: The amount of booths and chairs in this place tell me that. (The booths and chairs are dark red, or la vide rouge. Yeah.) I can't see them. Perhaps it's like I said, that smoke screen coming off the chairs every time you put even just the fucking tip of your finger on them, the skins of customers gone by... People have fun in this place man. Perhaps that human skin that has like evaporated... hides that shit man. Or maybe I'm the only one here this time. Anyway, look... I'm trying to tell you a story so can we like get to my main fucking point? The fucking shaman is dancing, I'm sweating, against a dark wall which is sweating with damp back at me and the light is la vide bleu, the chairs la vide rouge. And this fucking joker shaman guy is in the middle of the club shaking his blue breast tassels and screaming to the HIGH FUCKING HEAVENS all in my face. And that sends me right over the fucking edge. I don't do anything, but I like hit... the edge.. the closure, the fucking heel. The, like, ultimate annihilation detonation point extrodinaire. Shit ends right there. As I lower my eyes to catch my breath, thinking about how I'm going to end that fucking shamans... like, LIFE, the la vide bleu ink sky begins to disintegrate - maybe someone like removed a curtain or something. What the fuck does it matter man? Yeah, the lights changing and I'm still outta breath leaning back against those terrible fucking red booths, the Shaman doesn't care about the change in light - it's his turn to be someplaceelseman. The lights changing, night or day doesn't matter man, flame light pervades this place. A brilliant bright phoenix light, you know the kind - the kind you've see on fucking desktop computer screen-savers. It's fucking beautiful man. Practically fucking paradisiacal. My eyes see the floor beneath me illuminate, orange light at my corneas like a fat girl over chicken. The Shaman is dancing, and dancing, and dancing. Grinding and grinding and grinding. Screaming and screaming and screaming. The dust of those who came before and no longer walk among us from the floor of this joint is being, like, disturbed by the gnarled feet of the shaman - and I'm thinking how did this guy even end up in a place like this? The dust starts to travel up to meet my lowered eyes, like curling itself into my nostrils. I can feel it. It feels like the G-Y-M ... GYM all over again. Other peoples shit getting into all your shit. As you can imagine, this is enough to snap me back into the real world. And I raise my eyes into that vivid orange to meet the shamans.

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