AB








This Situation Is Excellent
After spending most of her life living on her husbands farm, she finally left for the city. There was a time, in the early years of their marriage, that she’d felt it was their farm, she believed in what they were doing. Over the years, he found himself constantly compromising his ideals and that, more than anything, turned him into a bitter and hard man. Now, she felt more and more distanced from that initial dream they shared - the work was hard on their bodies and the isolation was hard on her mind, and once all the kids left home it nearly drove her mad. So she planned to leave. On Tuesday’s he went into town to sell at the farmers market and if they had managed to have a reasonable week together with no screaming matches or overheard snide remarks, he would let her come. After helping move the vegetables and set up the stand she could go for a wander, maybe meet up with Anne. She managed to keep her disdain for the whole farm at bay for two weeks in anticipation of her departure, and as she stepped into the boat and he asked her why her backpack had to be so big, she calmly answered - I’ll return a summer’s worth of books to the library.

When the stand was all set up and he’s fit for selling, she asks to head off to the library - so long as he can manage without her. -Sure thing. Don’t be a stranger, he says to her back and she walks away. That is what they used to send their visitors off with from the front porch of the farm house, arms around one another’s back, waving happily, back when they had more visitors. It was always supposed to be a joke for the guest considering how difficult it was to get to there, but they really said it feeling bound together in the fact that nearly everyone felt like a stranger to them. She hadn’t heard him say it in years.

She makes in the direction of the public library, knowing that she’ll walk right past it with a back pack full of her absolute necessities, 500 dollars she’d managed to hide away from returning all of her birthday gifts to the shops in town over the past few years and 400 she took as a last minute thought from their cash bank he kept in the cellar, paranoid about banks as he was. She knew that would upset him the most, even realizing her absence would be easier to stomach than her stealing money she worked hard enough for to deserve. She could have taken more. She passes the library and makes her way for the highway, she’s more excited than nervous, but is fully conscious of the fact that the market closes at 3pm. She’s got until about 4 to find a ride, after he’ll pack up the stand, bring any left over vegetables to the grocers, wonder why she’s not back yet, head to the library, maybe a few other occasional spots - anne’s house, the coffee shop, and then make straight for the highway. She’s tried this once before, only in a much less anticipated way. After the first and only time he hit her, she refused to come to bed with him despite his heartfelt apologies. She laid sleepless on the couch until she could feel he was asleep, and then silently left without packing a thing, got in her canoe and paddled to town. She was calm, but she didn’t get a ride, there weren’t many cars traveling at that time of the morning and it wasn’t even 7 before he pulled up in the truck and asked her to get in. She only had a canoe and he had a motor boat, he had never let her drive it. She refused until he said he would change, he knew what he was becoming and he hated himself for it. The intensity of those hours left them both exhausted and forgiving of one another. They never spoke about that night again and though he never hit her again, nothing much changed.

She had plenty of time, her conviction assured her she’d find a ride. Soon, in fact, a husband and wife on holiday from Germany, in a rental motor home picked her up. They were heading all the way to Prince George, 800 kilometres from here, where she could easily catch a grey hound south. They didn’t mind her travelling the whole way, and considering their english wasn’t very good they mostly talked to one another only to acknowledge her with kind eyes and the occasional heavy bread with cheese snack they seemed to have a never ending supply of as well as the desire to eat it. She sat in the back and leafed through their tourist guides. Maps of the roads she might be taking, guides to the cities she might end up living in, soon enough. By the time he would have packed everything up and made his rounds, she was already in Dease Lake. No matter how infuriated he would be, or devastated (she wasn’t sure of which he would be more) there was no way he’d drive more than 50 kilometers roundtrip, with the cost of gas these days. So, she’d done it. She was free.

Tuesday morning the alarm goes off and she gets out of her single bed with ease, into the shower, makes her coffee, smokes a cigarette out the window, her morning ritual. She’s looking down on Commercial Drive, from the 6th floor of her single occupancy social housing block, everything’s still pretty quiet except for the grocers setting up their fruit stands out front of their small shops. She’ll make her way to work in the city centre soon, if she leaves early enough she can walk, which she much prefers over the bus. She manages to pack her lunch and get ready in time for that and feels good when she makes it to the call centre, just before 9. The call centre mainly sells lavatory and kitchen accessories, like toilet paper and plastic cutlery. She likes talking on the phone though, after so many years without one, no matter whose on the other end or that the conversation is about paper towel dispersers.

-Hello Magic Noodles
Hello sir
Are you the manager or owner of Magic Noodles?
-Yes, I’m the manager. How can I help you?
I’m calling from Commercial Kitchen Wholesale and Supply.
My name is Sarah, might I ask what your name is?
-Paul.
Hi Paul….?
-Kentridge, Paul Kentridge.
Nice to meet you Paul Kentridge.
Now, let me ask you, are you at Magic Noodles satisfied with your current wholesale supplier? Are you looking for a new reliable and eco friendly supplier of all your commercial kitchen and bathroom needs, that boasts free delivery on the first solid year of supply and drastically lower rates and a better selection than any other eco-friendly suppliers in the Greater Vancouver Area?
-Well, I think we’re quite fine with who we are working with now, Sarah. We’re just a small new restaurant, and I’d like to see if we last longer than a half year before I commit to any years worth of free shipping. Though, do you accept payment made by invoice?
-Yes sir, Paul, we certainly do. And, not to demean your new business in any way, but (between me and you) we offer fairly generous sample packs of everything we have to offer in terms of to-go containers, disposable cutlery, napkins and compostable bags.
-Hmm, well, I suppose I might be interested in some of these eco-friendly options. Right now, we’re using the styrofoam from the restaurant that used to be here, and my daughters are riding me about it. Yeah, ok, I’ll take whatever sample packs you have of eco-friendly to-go containers and compostable bags.
Great, Paul, now, let me check - do I have your address correct: 134 Arbutus Drive?
-Yes that’s correct
And, will you or someone be there, say…tomorrow, morning, around 9-9:30?
-Yea sure, I can be here.
Great, so I’ll send over a truck with your free sample packs tomorrow morning then Paul.
-Looking forward. Pleasure doing business with you Sarah.
Likewise Paul. Don’t be a stranger.


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The rain hadn’t let up for three weeks. He’d just moved to Vancouver and had yet to venture further than the No Frills down the street and the small corner bar adjacent to his ground floor bachelor apartment. He’d yet to see the sky, and began to wonder if there was a sky here, or if this heavy grey colour he woke up to every morning, was actually just what the sky looked like. The semester would start in a few weeks, and in an effort to prepare himself, to adjust to his new lifestyle, he fled home a little early, giving himself time to settle. He had no appropriate rain clothing, this was in part why he never ventured further then he had so far, because by the time he made it to the No Frills and back he was drenched in a bone chilling kind of way. Jokingly when he left home his older sister gifted him a full taxi cab yellow classic fisherman’s rain get up, which he jovially wore around the house for the rest of his going away party that evening, and then packed up in a small box and tucked in the back of the crawl space, not sure if his sister had actually wanted him to take it or not. Wishing desperately now that he’d taken it more seriously. He could describe exactly where it was to his mother and get her to send it to him in secret, but it would take at least two weeks to get a package from Halifax, and if this rain didn’t let up he knew two weeks in the dim light of that apartment wouldn’t do him any good. So he just kept waking up every morning and looking out the window, hoping it would reduce to at least a drizzle so he could move further into the city in search of an outfitters, to invest in some rain gear and his sanity.

When nothing had changed three days later, his solitude got the better of him and by the evening he wandered over to adjacent bar and found himself quite drunk within the hour, pretending to read Ulysses, which he’d been pretending to read for what seemed like his whole life. Drunk enough already that the lines were waving, and his ability to focus for a whole sentence was already impaired, he ordered another pilsner and realized while doing so that the only words he’d heard himself say in the past three plus weeks were customer service exchanges, to bartenders and clerks. When the young but hardened bartender brought him his beer, he made an effort to at least move beyond the supply and demand exchange and he asked her - you from Vancouver? Nope, Comox, she said and went back to the taps, but with no beer to pour. The booze had the better of him. When usually this disengaged interaction would have been enough to clearly communicate she’s less interested in chatting than I am in being outside, he refused to leave without having at least a minor conversation with anyone. Since the rest of the bar was filled with groups or the kind of single guys he didn’t want to associate with, with fear of having to associate with them time and time again, she was his only option, so he persisted. -Where’s Comox? -Vancouver Island, North. Fuck she wasn’t budging. -Does it rain like this in Comox? -Nope, not like this. Doesn’t usually rain like this here either, anymore. -Anymore? -Must be something to do with climate change. When my mom was growing up she said it rained like this all winter, but I haven’t seen anything like it. - Hey, do you know a place where I can get some good rain gear…nearby? She smiled, -There’s an MEC on Broadway, you can take a bus from just down the street, won’t need to brave the rain much more then you did to get here I imagine, it stops right in front of the doors. -Fuck, why hadn’t I thought of that. I’m clueless, of course I can take a bus, it’s just, this rain makes my head move so slow, walking pace. -Where are you from? -Halifax. -So you must be used to it? -No, snows like hell and the winds are miserable but I’ve never seen anything like this rain.

Their conversation bobbed in and out between long drinks she had to mix and beers she had to pour, long enough for him to finish one more pilsner then feel warm enough from the alcohol and his minor success to pack it in and head home. He left her a five on the counter. She said it was nice to meet him and he assured her she’d meet him again. -Remember, she said -doesn’t matter how good the rain gear is, you’re still wet. He walked across the street to his apartment, stripped off his soggy clothing and fell asleep wishing he hadn’t left that five on the counter, reinforcing their customer server dynamic.

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The sergeant sat at his desk in his private office with his second black coffee of the day. This morning, like every other morning, he thought to himself, with folders open in front of him, that he wasn’t fit for the job. The uniform suited him, but his entire life was like a set of unmade decisions laid before him due to his stern face, an authority he’d never been comfortable with since he realized he obtained it.

His eldest daughter left home when she was 16 and now lived on some sort of community farm on Denman Island on the West Coast of Canada. He had never been to visit her, but they spoke on the phone once a week, she would call his office collect from a payphone at the local boat gas station and he would look forward to her call all week from the moment they hung up this week. She didn’t leave home because of turmoil, she left because she wanted to, though, the sergeant never told her she did in fact have a case against him. In her 15th year he had, like an overbearing protective father with access to an entire police department may do, wired her private telephone to record her conversations onto cassette tape, which he would listen to in his police car while patrolling the streets of Calgary. At that time, he justified it to himself as a gesture of protection, but in retrospect he knew it was because he didn’t know her and he was afraid of her. She was the opposite of him, she made all of her own decisions and followed them through until she was fulfilled. She made significant movements her entire life, and lived completely submersed in her phases as if she had been each way forever even when forever was only a brief spell. While he felt his entire life was one lack of decision, only an un-evolving set of reactions to opportunities he didn’t even want in the first place.

He wanted to go and visit her on Denman Island, he had planned to go each summer vacation he had since she moved there 3 years ago. The thought of the west coast in winter didn’t appeal to him much, what with all the rain and grey skies - despite her telling him that was just a myth made up by draft dodgers to keep newcomers away, so they could hold onto that paradise they found. He, or his wife, or his employer, or his other children always seemed to harpoon the plan to visit her for some reason or another - a flu, an anti police violence demonstration, a prize won at the Elk’s Lodge Sunday Bingo for a free trip to Six Flags outside of Toronto. He secretly despised everyone who got in his way of going to Denman Island, even his ecstatic youngest daughter who won the trip to Six Flags. In the end, he would always cooperate even when he knew his broken promises hurt his eldest daughter. He knew he hadn’t hurt her enough though, because his phone would still ring, like clock work on Tuesday morning. After he’d accept the collect call fees, her voice - which always sounded to him that it was years beyond her age - would pretend on the other end that he was the one who called her, in her office, at the water gas station on the coast of Denman Island in the Straight of Georgia, where he always imagined her sitting on a wooden platform underneath the municipal blue payphone that still only required 25 cents to make a local call.

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You know the Lachapelle house is gone, and I now have a

gravel lot beside me, with a little shed

(replica of the kids playhouse but colors same as my house) sitting on the back corner.

Hoping they will have ideas

about the yard - the hill is collapsing more too and we've been working

on clearing brush on it, he is an incredible

help - like a mountain goat on the hill where I only can use

one hand as I have to hang onto a tree to work. Also have trouble just getting up to the alley, need a

stair and railing. I used to have trees all along the way but we took out most of them.

So I was just as happy with the Lachapelle house for storage, and to give me privacy in the yard, but he

always worried about me having to put money in it eventually as it weathers over the years. But now it

is done

and the kids have cleared out all their stuff too.

One benefit is that I now have a driveway all

across the front,

so you can drive right to the stairs at the front and then go right on instead of having

to back up.

That is nice for the girls,

and also eliminates most of the gardening out front where I never

liked to work out in public.

Though I must say I have had some nice conversations with European tourists-

all asking the same questions. I should go and actually see where the AC trail starts and where Jack Londons

Cabin is exactly from here.

I'm pretty vague considering all my time here.

Enjoyed having her here for that month while her house was still rented. Worked great, and was warm

enough by then to open the attic for the bedroom. We even did some walking - my idea was to cover the

eight avenues of town, just to see everything new. And we did cover quite a few of them.

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I remember you when you were just an insignificant, gaping hole in the ground of the earth. Ripped up soil and dredged old garbage, piling up on all sides, construction materials lining up to fill you from the bottom to the top, and the workers - rubbing their hands together in anticipation of the years of stable work ahead of them, because of you. I remember you when you were just a twinkle in the eye of the capitalists mind, gleaning with stout pride and potential - full of hopes, dreams and ambitions, standing for everything your mothers and fathers (well, mostly fathers) wanted to see in the world. Stability. Wether or not these beliefs were misguided, lacking criticality, ignorant or violent you are everything they wanted you to be - everything they wanted to believe in is housed inside your glass atriums, your elevators, your floor to ceiling windows and your carpeted cubicles. Guarded, protected, by strangers to you, men and women, who believe in you, or believe in the need for you, or the need to engage with you to wake up in the morning to make it work, to feed the mouths, to operate within the structures you perpetuate. They guard your premises with gusto - with thousands of cameras, with check in points and swipe cards, retinal scanners and flat screen monitors, bar codes and personal identification numbers. All of these mechanisms make up your insides, your guts and intestines. The suits and ties that file through the hallways - the arteries of your cardiovascular system - filled with bloody streams of black and white and grey and navy blue, hard leather shoes with wooden soles and patent high heals running through your veins. Wim and Mario, Alexandre and all the rest, contemplating stability and inflation from your top floor board rooms. They are gazing out at the vistas you boast; over the rapidly gentrifying streets encircling you, the new cafes with their four euro cappuccinos and quinoa salads in biodegradable take away boxes, all of the once affordable housing rapidly converting into lifestyle complexes, self contained communities with pre fab kitchens and light laminate flooring, all enclosed by fortress style walls built in a sort of useless panopticon style around a conceptual garden for lease holder only viewing pleasure, the public recreation zone with the trampolines, the children, and the teenage boys on skateboards, the river flowing past you constantly in some direction filled with long haul low riding barges transporting scrap metals, fuel, soil and whatever else from somewhere old to somewhere new.

I remember you when I was new here, sitting on an old boat across the water from you, you were only just a wide foundation, low to the ground barely standing on your own two feet. But look at you now! Look at you now towering over everything, dominating us all with your architecture, your scale and the systems perpetuated inside of you.

----------------

Paul gets a call from Sue in the early morning, through the panting and hysterical crying he manages to understand something about Hoop. She’s too shaky can’t drive - please paul drive, RIGHT NOW. He rides over to her dorm and finds Sue already sitting in the red taurus no less hysteric then she was on the phone, keys in the ignition, window rolled down, as soon as she sees Paul she yells - HOOPS DYING PAUL, HURRY UP. Fair enough. Paul locks his bike and rushes over, thank god she calls him he thinks as soon as he gets in the car and gets a good look at her - Sue’s hands are wildly shaking and her vision must be completely blurred with so many tears pouring out of her eyes. She doesn’t calm down for the entire duration of the drive, but Paul manages to decipher that mom had called this morning to tell her Hoop hasn’t been well lately, but this morning he became unresponsive, stiff, glazed eyes, can’t get up and she’s convinced he’s only got a few hours left. Paul really is trying his best to comfort Sue, but no point really. He’s also trying to get some real information out of her - like, how many hours left? How long’s he been sick for? How unresponsive? How stiff? He manages to extract enough between sobs to conclude Hoop’s basically dead already. He’s going to need to be buried. Cremated? They pull up to the house and Sue basically throws herself out the moving car, stumbling to a full run through the screen door into the house up the stairs straight to her room where she knows Hoop is laying. Paul stays put. Hands on the wheel, then on his lap - he figures the most useful place for him to be is here, he’s never cared so much for dogs, and surely the family wants to mourn Hoop together, and who is he to deny them that? Car’s idling, Paul’s sitting there waiting, for something. Kath shows up, knocks on the rolled up window - what are you doing, paul? Paul - waiting I guess, don’t want to interrupt. Kath - car’s idling paul, what are you waiting for? Paul - I dunno, trying to be helpful? Figure Hoop will need to be taken somewhere, after, you know, he, uhhh, dies? Kath - you’re waiting to be helpful, paul? Waiting for Hooper to die so you can be helpful…paul? Hoops’ dying and you’re out here in an idle car waiting to take him somewhere as soon as he dies? As soon as he fucking dies already, paul? - Uh oh, Paul thinks, they’re all hysteric. - Paul - shit, no, not like that, I mean, I just don’t really, like, know Hoop like you guys do, and thought you would want to say good bye to him together, without me, that maybe I’d be most helpful out here. Kath - paul stop saying helpful. Paul - sorry. Kath - paul, something in you said the most important thing to worry about, while your girlfriends childhood dog is upstairs dying, is how to be helpful? Useful? Paul? Paul- uhhhh I guess so, yes. Kath - well fuck, paul, what a a helpful guy you are.

Paul Thomas, a helpful guy.

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Women were greatly out numbered by men at that time. Whenever a new teacher or nurse was shipped into town, the men who hadn't snagged a wife would line up at the bus station in anticipation of her arrivals.

----------------

W: But we fucked up that interview….because we, we were too young…and smoking pot.

J: Right...

W: We can’t do it again, can we?

J: So like -

W: Now we’re back in school, aren’t we?

J: So how do you move on to that new office if you haven’t finished the job interview and you’ve got all these elastic bands you know are supposed to knot together in some particular order but you like, can’t figure out how to connect even two of them, and your parents are like calling, telling you their coming, coming for a visit.

W: (matter of fact)
Get glasses

J: glasses?

W: (genuine)
They really help.

J: Really?

W: Yea.

J: I never thought of that...

W: They give you that distinctive look. They do…

J: Like standing out in the crowd.

W: They really do! They really do and I...(almost sadly) that's why I don't think I fit in...

J: Because you have 20/20 vision?

W: I don’t need em’.

J: yeah but…why not get fake ones, or wear sunglasses….sunglass all the time…

W: I just - they just don't look right - I always know it’s a farce, like I’m a lair, a smug bastard trying to convince everyone I’m intelligent.

(LONG PAUSE)

J: That's terrible...

W: See the problem is you can't find the instructions for the elastic bands…the picture with the happy kids and their stretchy toys.

J: - I wanna -

W: - wrapping their knots around one anothers body parts

J: I wanted the game with the instructions….and the pictures…the how to do it kids….

W: See, there is one - not only with the how to do it kids, they have one with your family, you just haven’t been to the right store, you haven’t seen the ones with the right pictures for you - it makes it easier to knot them together then it’s your family members face, right there in front of you smiling with elastic bands wrapped around their neck. It’s just that you don’t know those how to do it kids. But when it’s your family…you’ve realized, what it’s all about….

J: No but see, I bought the - the elastic bands with the European Central Bank, and the spider man logo and the anarchy A, and the uh, doors all locked with elaborate knots…

W: That's the problem. You have to get the ones made out hair. Covered in blood. And your family.

J: But, now I’ve already got all their elastic bands wrapped together that, like, are apart of me now, knotted around me, that like - I mean, you can’t say - once you like become completely knotted yourself that you can actually separate from it anymore…

W: So that makes you an artist.

J: (a little desperate)
I know but, I've got to find more elastics.

W: You're an artist! You make your own bands! Make them out of your hair, out of razor blades, out of crimson blue…use your favourite memory.

J: But what am I gunna do with all these weird stretchy knots that weren’t even supposed to be connected to me in the first place? I mean, they are everywhere. I tried to keep my eyes open, I mean, I tried to like be very aware of the shapes I was making, that I wanted to make when I bought the bands and the instructions with the ECB on the front and making sure all the bands went together in the right order but….

W: Can I -

J: But then I got all wrapped up myself, all caught up and - it was too late! It was like, all these body parts with no circulation and blue fingers and stuff and I tried to convince myself it was the ECB and it was the end of passive acceptance - but it was not, man! It was not that at all! And -

W: (almost screaming)
You know why, right?! I'm telling you, I know the answer and it's this: you - do you remember when you were talking about biscuits and your favourite memory and and ——

J: Yes...and the crimson blue.

W: Right...doesn't it all make sense now?

J: No!

W: Did you - did you find...the favourite memory - the fucking family in the back of the instruction manual!

J: No!

W: It’s at the back - it’s taped to the back of the pamphlet!

J: I've got these -

W: Can I see them? Can I please see them and see those fucking bands! That is the key!

J: (Defeated)
You can do whatever you want. What you don't understand is that...what you don't understand is that, I thought it was a skyscraper, I thought it was a symbol for something, but it wasn’t. Ok? It was just a part of those fucking how to do it kids and their smiling faces. Ok? It was just a part of their living room. And I - I convinced myself for so long that it was about capitalism and when it wasn’t at all about that I felt like I’d been punched in the gut and woken up and I realized: how do I trust other elastic bands, other instruction manuals, with this much, you know, vigor as I once did? Because what if….what if none of them are about capitalism? About gentrification? About the fucking fixed gear bike shop opening downstairs with 4 euro flat whites and a salad bar…what if they are all just like…

W: They’ve gotta be pictures of your family! They must be - pictures of your brothers?

J: Well, that's what I was trying for! There was like, two happy boys and I thought they were my brothers then I open the book and took it home and the boys didn’t have any faces and, and…

W: And you bought this at Netto?

J: And it's all that I wanted.
That's all I wanted, I mean, forever - since I was a how to kid myself.
just - it was just -

W: (incredulous)
Have you never knotted the elastic bands in the right order?

J: (shamefully)
No...

W: Ever?

J: Never. (pause) They're all these fucked up knots wrapped around my arts and legs and neck and tits.

(PAUSE)

W: You have a serious problem, young woman…

J: I know I do. But I don’t think I’m much different from anybody else. I bet everyone else has got a bunch of like, pseudo-knots under their comfy sweatshirts that really are just like attempts at following weird instruction manuals that never really work nor fit together.

W: (incredulous)
No.

J: I mean, I can’t be alone in this thing, you know...

W: You are.

J: Well it sure feels that way you know when I listen to the radio and read the headlines and stuff and everyone seems to have their knots all in order, so perfectly tied together, you know? Just the right amount of tension and everything. Because see what they do is they take you into a perfectly lit room and take your photograph and make it look like you’re got all their bands tied together really well, you know. And they can do that. They can do that! Anything, the way you package it.

W: It's all online! The way the package it!

J: Right, they can make it look like you've got your bands together but they really don't. But it makes it people who don’t have their knots tied right feel really small and insignificant.

W: But you are...but that's what makes all the difference, you're an artist.

J: But I'm not insignificant. Because my knots aren’t any more fucked up that anyone else’s knots. I mean, and if, I guess if I had an internet server or something I could like take my own photo and make it look like my bands are knotted then I’d be okay - but I’m - I don’t wanna do that because then all those other people like me who don’t really have any idea what their knots are supposed to look like would feel like they’d have to treat me like someone who has the perfect configuration of knots and I’d know it was a big lie. And then I’d be like doing Elite Partners ads when I’m 30 and be real smug and end up getting hit by tram late some night walking home drunk. There wouldn’t be much point in that, would their?

W: No, you're an artist. I've told you a hundred times! (pause)
You see what you - the part that you don't understand... (long pause) what is there to not understand? I - I - I...it's so hard for me to explain it to you because see, I see, I see that you - you're a bit off, actually.

J: I'm very off. I didn't realize how off I was until I pulled my sweatshirt off and saw all my body parts blue with no circulation and…and saw it for what it really was….

W: Did you try scissors?

J: (desperate)
The knots are too tight! It’s, I wish I could untied them, if I could I’d pull em’ apart and it’s be ok - okay, but I can’t there’s way too much tension and they are forever knotted around my arms and legs and neck and tits.

PAUSE

W: I see...

J: And then I came home and showed my friends all proud of my knots and shit and it wasn’t until then that I realized….

W: ...you bombed that interview, and…

J: ..yeah, I should stay in school….



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You are listening to Alan Watts, or any meditation specialist, from your computer speakers this morning. They are telling you about internal happiness, about surrendering the self, and disconnecting value from what we are taught to seek it from, and that it all really is possible. You cannot think about meditating, you can only meditate. Striving for eternal happiness is impossible but obtaining it is not. George Harrison is singing about his sweet lord. He really wants to see him, he really wants to feel him, but it takes so long, my lord. She was wondering if the future could understand the present, if our extended life expectancy was understood by our own conception of time and life, if time felt different, or was different since the 1920’s when we died at 60 and now when we die at 100. He was talking about the inherent problematics of language and feeling, that our definitive and united problem was the discrepancy between a world felt through feeling but explained through language. With such an operating system we are all essentially doomed to carry out a life of internal solitude and misunderstanding. How can one understand another when they are not the other.


Grooving on the eternal now.