Summer. Woke up early, prompting of preset pulsing; late night packaging compact discs. Stumbled from bed to resume boxing, Abba racing through my head…
“Take a chance on me… if you put me to the test, if you let me try… gonna do my very best and it ain’t no lie…”
Ad libbing Abba, sipping coffee naked. Teeth are likely to show caffeine habit as boldly as do the fingers of a nicotine addict. Cue laugh-track.
Lyrics running the gauntlet, impossible to ignore. A memetic mirror in which to see myself. Hope the discs offered by me continue to move; climb out of the hole I’m at the bottom of, find freedom in flight. Take a chance on me.
Odd dreams last night. Dead that weren’t, bodies that weren’t. Reality as illusion. Unvoiced thoughts made substantial through dream, finding form in familiar faces. Running through forests, fleeing faceless fears. Confronted. Refusal to acknowledge face, distorted truths; can’t see them, can’t listen to them, can’t let them become real. Ignore. Dashing illusory form of familial face on rocks, pushed and left to die, running water cascading; no blood. Not real. Can’t be. Watching the water, waiting. Arthurian arm breaking surface, searching, seeking; pull the sword from the stone, witnessing rebirth of form cleansed in clean water. Real, healed.
Welcome.
do you know that the majority of laugh tracks were recorded in the early 50s? so even to this day when you hear laughter on tv, it’s that of dead people. eerie. add laugh track to “smells like teen spirit” and i think we could resurrect kurt cobain.