November 18, 2009|
the living room is finally clear, somehow. i don't know how. my mother and I use computers there, side-by-side. it smells like cat feces near mine. a boy comes in, he is enthusiastic, he wants to show us things, he wants to view things. we have not met the partner in the guest room. but i don't want to talk to her because she is fat. I walk by, to the bathroom, I see her hunched over on the floor, her back to me, large and unmoving.
the actress who played velma in some scoopy doo business performs on a stage, never dates fat people or the infidels, her skin is sunburnt and crackly. when the spotlights hit her, the less lit half of her body is golden, while the exposed part is totally white and every crack is completely exposed
a shopping mall with a workout room wrapped around and over the face of the building, turns out it's alright for me to bring my yoga mat in to use, for free, without paying for a class. I try to meditate. I feel distracted. the girl says she can't do that.
the girl shows me how two 2-liter bottles full of different types of hydrogen peroxide can make a map of the solar system or the universe. letters, asterisms.
I ask about the typos, and they are there. what severe mistakes they are.
we are in a hill among the trees, in twilight, and i make advances on her, so unsure that i cannot help but do so, and she does not respond much, she seems oblivious to the chase. if i were truly attractive, she could not resist me, her family is nearby, but my ego is still popped.
It is night, and the figure in the room still has not moved. She is still in the same position, reading a book. I find out she is a sumo wrestler which I think means she is a male. Somehow this makes her more acceptable. I ask if she minds if I close the window. Or I tell her I need to, wordlessly she stands up, lumbers over to the window, slides it closed, never looks at meóI can't see her faceómoves back to her place among the blankets and laziness, plops down, return to form.
a young boy pummels another young boy's body with a hand-axe. the pummeled boy screams with each strike, but the fat attacker is relentless. the pummeled boy tries to cover his chest with his arm, and the viewer cringes as the axe destroys his arm. the camera, somehow from the point of view of the destroyed boy, pans down briefly to reveal his broken chest, his exposed and bloody brain. It is pointless for him to beg in that bratty young voice, that missing-tooth voice for the attacker to stop. what will he do if the attack stops? go to a hospital? half his body is already outside. he is, essentially, dead.
I feel helpless to human suffering. I never want another living thing to hurt. I slip into complacency, because it seems impossible to change the world.