Some Whole Wheat Words

And Other Up-Lift

Archive for October 2007

SOC 300

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Now I’m ecologically conscious, socially conscious, politically conscious, and racially conscious. Frankly, I’d rather be unconscious.

Written by wholewheatwords

October 25, 2007 at 9:43 pm

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Difficult Wednesdays

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“But I don’t wanna visit the zoo anymore! I wanna go home!”

* * *

In the future everyone will have the same haircut and the same clothes.
In the future everyone will be very fat from the starchy diet.
In the future everyone will be very thin from not having enough to eat.
In the future it will be next to impossible to tell girls from boys, even in bed.
In the future men will be super masculine and women will be ultra-feminine.
In the future half of us will be mentally ill.
In the future there will be no religion or spiritualism of any sort.
In the future the psychic arts will be put to practical use.
In the future we will not think that nature is beautiful.
In the future the weather will always be the same.
In the future no one will fight with anyone else.
In the future there will be an atomic war.
In the future water will be expensive.
In the future all material items will be free.
In the future everyone’s house will be like a little fortress.
In the future everyone’s house will be a total entertainment centre.

In the future everyone but the wealthy will be very happy.
In the future everyone but the wealthy will be very filthy.
In the future everyone but the wealthy will be very healthy.
In the future TV will be so good that the printed word will function as an art-form only.
In the future people with boring jobs will take pills to relieve the boredom.
In the future no one will live in cities.
In the future there will be mini-wars going on everywhere.
In the future everyone will think about love all the time.

In the future political and other decisions will be based completely on opinion polls.
In the future there will be machines which will produce a religious experience in the user.
In the future there will be groups of wild people, living in the wilderness.
In the future there will only be paper money which will be personalised.
In the future there will be a classless society.

In the future everyone will only get to go home once a year.
In the future everyone will stay home all the time.
In the future we will not have time for leisure activities.
In the future we will only work one day a week.
In the future our bodies will be shriveled up but our brains will be bigger.
In the future there will be starving people everywhere.
In the future people will live in space.
In the future no one will be able to afford TV.
In the future the helpless will be killed.
In the future everyone will have their own style of way-out clothes.
In the future we will make love to anything, anytime, anywhere.
In the future there will be so much going on that no one will be able to keep track of it.

David Byrne – In The Future

Written by wholewheatwords

October 17, 2007 at 9:45 pm

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Catlines

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I live in Toronto now, on the Danforth– Greektown. Social clubs are everywhere; through stained windows, I see faces melted by time, bodies stooped around tables peppered with forgotten dominoes. The wind is slow but constant and cold, and carries the stink of catfights. Cat battles, innumerable and unseen; cats screaming in the night, drawing lines in urine, crossing and recrossing lines, redrawing new lines.

I take two lines to school, under the ground. I fall asleep on my feet sometimes, and the light in the subway car seems to slide downwards from the walls as if greased, breaking into its component colours and smearing the back of my eyelids. When I wake up, the people around me have changed identities and become other people. These people move in rhythm, out the doors, changing lines, crossing and recrossing lines, redrawing new lines.

Sometimes we come upon an opening in the lines, and we exit from the esophagus of the tunnels into the city’s stomach. Pits filled with magma gasp and belch below us. Great crunching vistas of ash and sulfur lie stretched like a bedsheet for miles and miles, fumes poison the sunlight. We look into the windows and play eye-tag in the reflections.

Third year has come down hard. It’s kind of tough for me to justify doing things like reading and writing for recreation when there’s reading and writing to do for school. I end up doing things that don’t remind me of my classes, like drinking and cooking and television. I have difficulty finishing things, especially stories.

Stories; I have stories to do. Not made up but real. Or approximating reality. I’ll work on those, and stockpile images and warmth. Black bean chili for dinner tonight, I think to myself. With some gin to drink.

This is from my hard drive. I saved it before my computer bit the shit. I could say something like “I’m working on the internal in this narrative, and the direction, I believe, will come from the internal becoming external,” but, really, I don’t know where the hell this is going. I’ve enjoyed writing it, so far. There’s a backstory, about a communicable form of clinical depression, and a gimmick– it’s written in monochrome, relying on texture and the quality of the light instead of colour to give character to the setting.

* * *

Cutting down the dead man in the lobby was the first thing that he did after arriving. With some difficulty, he carried the body out to the cliffs behind the lighthouse and threw it into the sea. Its arms and legs were frozen at odd angles, and it fell like a sack of concrete and sank immediately.

The clouds were heavy and dark, like watered ink. Soft rain drooled from them intermittently, and he began to sober up.

The back door of the lighthouse yielded after a kick, screeching loudly. His clothes were wet with rain and smelled unfamiliar. The sound of the door closing behind him ricocheted off the hard unpainted concrete and made him jump.

An hour later he found two more bodies, a man and a woman, in a service closet, along with a straight razor and a large quantity of dried blood. These too he pitched into the sea. He closed the closet afterwards, and propped a chair against the door handle. The razor he kept.

He found a pantry with canned food and a small camping stove, but couldn’t bring himself to eat. Instead, he removed the seagull droppings and the dried leaves from the floor of the lobby, first scuffing them out the door with his feet, then sweeping after he found a broom with a splintered handle.

In the top of the lighthouse there were two broken whiskey bottles, some unused condoms, and a syringe. A side of the Fresnel lens had been shattered by force, and the whorls fit together strangely, like a cut through a fingerprint. Distorted machinery lay quieted behind the glass.

There was a two-way radio in the room marked “radio.” Pieces flew everywhere when he smashed it on the floor. He cleaned them up with the broom, then piled them on top of the desk, turned off the light, and closed the door.

Wincing as the straps pulled at raw skin, he loosened his gas mask and placed it in his backpack. In his backpack there were two other things: a book with writing on the inside cover and an empty pill bottle. The bag fell slowly over the cliff and did not make much of a splash. Bright, pale light marched from under the clouds.

Looking down, he saw the back of the dead man’s head, which moved gently in the tide, bumping against the cliff face. The short tail of the leather belt tied around the man’s neck had snagged upon an outcropping of rock. He walked back inside the lighthouse.

* * *

Time to pick up my laundry!

Written by wholewheatwords

October 13, 2007 at 3:19 pm

Posted in Uncategorized