Irregular writings
November 2012
My life in CAPITALS
I woke up from a short but deep sleep, feeling groggy due to the potions I had partaken of the night before. They knocked me out but wore off pretty quick. A CLASSIC stone. I had dreams, but as has been my lifelong attitude to these things, was going to keep them to myself. As soon as I actually remembered them. It was a CLASSIC wake up. Absolutely VINTAGE. I ambled to the kitchen. In a way, I was waking up in a robotic, mechanical, zombie like manner, though I have since learned I could use a much grander term. I was operating in a CLASSIC manner. It was a HERITAGE shamble into a new day. The cat played its part and ran in front of me at every opportunity, herding me towards its food bowl.
BEST cat! I boiled some hot water in the sleek, new, stainless steel, DEFINITIVE looking kettle and prepared some tea. No tea bags for me, only loose leaves which I had imported myself from an ICONIC supermarket in South Australia. A RUST BELT state. The tea is in a packet which I associate with that part of the world where I sprang from. And that time when I was springing. Behaving and moving to ETERNAL weather patterns and human growth. Amgoorie Tea. In a brown paper packet with exotic images of the mysterious east all over it. I drive there to get it. 455 kilometres a pack. I assemble a bowl of my BALL-TEARING cereal which is raw oatmeal from the ICONIC house of BLACK AND GOLD. I drench the rustic oats in LONG LIFE soy liquid and open my newspaper. As is my want, I threw it away in disgust. I was behaving in a PROTOTYPICAL way of a disgruntled reader of my age group. They would have had focus groups to agree with them on this. I needed to be herded toward the online version of the paper, full of more intelligent shit, blinking lights and sexier ads. Toward the exit door. My money was SAD. The editor should be happy.
I turned the radio on to listen to the anguished thoughts of the callers. I wanted REALITY. I drank a can of pop soda. It had my name on it. A friend had bought me a case. TOTAL IRONY! The drink’s name itself was a brand synonymous with corporate fascism and mass ill health the world over. Loved by billions. To the grave by way of the dentist.
I got into my car – a Japanese made 4 cylinder van. A PEARLER from the early 00s that will never be made again. I’m hangin’ onto it. The wheel. Will to live I guess. Some damn INNATE compulsion. Thank Christ something knows what’s goin’ on. I turn on the radio, set to a CLASSIC rock station and listen to stuff I had heard a thousand times before. It had been great. Once. I waited for the magic again. The stuff was guaranteed. SUREFIRE! I wasn’t feeling it. I felt off the world’s game. Out of it. Like Steve Martin in THE JERK.
What am I sayin’? Its tough living in a world of capitalised CLASSICS! You feel TOTALLY diminished, ABSOLUTELY.
I turned to one of the few stations dealing with new shit and tried some of that. Scandinavian indie bands singing some dreadful, sexless, feckless, filthless, faux folk song that sounded OLDER than time. Terrible lyrics and the boy/man’s voice came all out of his throat. There was no rest of his body involved. Sounded like musical theatre pipes happening. Thin and reedy. Punk was never going to happen. Is that why people listen to Neil Young? The reassuring grampiness of it all? There were a lot of other acts around on air, they were all generic too. Rooted.
When I grew up there was a squall of old time shit on the TV too. Made it unbearable. The Waltons and Happy Days. How many teen deaths were those shows responsible for? The nights were so long. Interminable! And then GREASE!
So we got stoned and turned to the Blue Oyster Cult with their hit, “Don’t Fear the Reaper”. (The singer is dead and is telling his girlfriend to kill herself and cross over – a CLASSIC). The Cult were being killed off with that hit. That would have been legendary if we’d all carked out there in the forest, behind the drive-in, with “Tyranny and Mutation” on the tape deck, repeating on the track “OD’d on Life Itself”. Total teen death VERISIMILITUDE! My life would have had, almost, an appearance of meaning.
Back in this day I was dressed in quadruple denim. The world had perverted me thusly. I was always dressing for that funeral that never was. For the old gang to gather at the back of the drive-in and sink a box of West End longnecks. And blaze a good pound of weed. A denim cape, jacket, shirt and pants. I was looking for some denim shoes and a denim hanky to poke out of my pocket. Years ago, I had a denim slouch hat made. A fucking CLASSIC! It was ICONIC! Made from a General’s titfer. Five folds in the band.
ANZACIACAL! Still, people eyed me suspiciously. They still do. I am neither romantically driven nor do I strive for a classic form. Well I do, but that’s just me being polite, trying to get square with folks. Get out of peoples way. Dodgy, but.
What I really needed was a one piece suit in dark denim, perhaps like the one designed by Black Panther Eldridge Cleaver. It was called a cock suit, because it had an exterior sleeve wherein a bloke ostensibly sheathed his throbbing purple headed Gila Monster. That was an ICONIC bit of clothing. It beheld a narrative! Eldridge had fled the USA to Algeria and had come back, with an eye to making a killing in the rag trade. They mocked him, perhaps that garment’s time has come? And I could at last assume some agreed human form?
Other Articles You May Like
Irregular writings
The future is Springvale
…
Irregular writings
Thrills, Anarchy and Neighbours
…Galleries
Weather
20°Latest Edition
