20.Nov.2003

because the rest are as evanescent as evanescence's career

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(***)

I am not comfortable unless one fantasy is fucked into a concrete reality. That being said, there are no amazing stories from today, there were no massive gains, there were no irrevocable losses, there were no political twists or religious highs, there was no peace and there was no chaos. There was mild disappointment and tame amusement.

I am not comfortable unless something extreme transpires.

Otherwise, I walk circles around a church parking lot on the northern side of Oklahoma City in predictable November cold on a cell-phone, one voice in my ear, cooing me beneath all its surface-cynicism back to somebody else's house, where all the inhabitants have as much substance as phantoms, and the traffic doesn't cease, and the Heavens don't shift, there is no improvement nor any regression, and everyone is self-absorbed, self-imposed, self-encased, ambivalent, and ultimately normal.

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My mother's nurses have slipped into beautician-flesh. I want to take a picture of her newly-painted mauve fingernails; there's a contrast of the color against her skin and her hospital sheets. It and the cell-phone voice are the only impressions of today I will take to sleep with me.

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time & machine