I Are Writings (723 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.94 on 21 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Fungah (View user info) at 2008-06-11 14:10:45 EDT
Viscous threads protrude from their lower backs, the threads maybe half an inch in diameter, anchoring them to the ceiling. These threads are semi transparent and red. They are hanging from the threads; man-like things which resemble human beings splattered at random with whole cans of day-glo paint. They're very colourful. Clumps of what seem like pine needles sag viscerally from their stomachs. They, there's eight of Them, They illuminate the underground room with kind of a dull pulsing glow. There's a breeze that rushes through the room at intervals. The room smells of must and concrete, with a subtle hint of lilac. The breeze is light, and carries this fragrant lilac scent, when it blows, and the things, that is, the things hanging from the ceiling, sway with the breeze in an exaggerated way. Like, maybe it's them that are swinging, and maybe the breeze has nothing to do with it. Maybe they're just swinging when they want, and when they want to swing just happens to be when the gentle breeze blows through; a coincidence, like, in timing. They kind of groan, kind of chirp when the breeze blows through, kind of sing a melody in harmony, which sometimes seems familiar, the melody. All this is to say that, as strange as they look, there's something almost comforting about the way their hanging pine-needle stomach things whisper. When the breeze comes. Their arms and legs droop near vertically at 80(odegrees) or so. Their heads, bald, hang down, lolling as they swing rhythmically from side to side, like eight swingsets operating in tandem without occupants.
The only exit from the room is a small door. Small here means a three foot affair, like something suitable for Alice or maybe a dwarf, in the Tolkienesque high-fantasy sense. The door's maybe oak or teak. It's dark and rich, colour-wise; saturation somewhere between that of blood and the incontinent stool of a career drunk. It looks nice. It's been polished and varnished, sealed, has had some truly intricate designs, which are a strange Meso-American-Victorian blend of aesthetic principles, carved into its surface; all floral patterns and impossible lines sketching out god-shapes. It, the door, the three foot affair, has a single bronze door knob. The door is a tiny door in a strange place that will not allow one to be John Malkovich, or travel down the rabbit hole, or any such thing. Instead, it leads here, into this room, where eight 'people' hang from threads from the ceiling, where it smells like lilac, where there's an inexplicably pleasant breeze blowing through from somewhere. This is a strange room.
The other side of the door, the only entrance into the room, strangely, is a sewer grate. This sewer grate is near the intersection of Spadina Ave. and Queen street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada, on the North American continent. About a block east of North-south running Spadina Ave.: Queen street, which daily plays host to thronging crowds, shopping at is boutiques and drinking at its myriad pubs and its sole jazz club, is an unlikely place for this sewer grate, which rather than leading vertically downwards into the Toronto sewer system leads horizontally into The Room. Falling downwards and a strange kind of twisting sensation is what one would feel, entering this room. One would fall flat on one's stomach after jumping into the grate, where one would expect to fall vertically onto one's feet some twenty feet below in a moribund lake of fresh sewage, their stomachs would instead hit cold wet cement on the other side of a tiny door, covered in Meso-American-Victorian designs, entering the room.
Ubeknownst to passer-bys, the day-glo people hang from their threads and sing, in the lilac breeze.
Saul sat above the Road to Damascus, on top of the roof of the World, drinking pharmaceutical-grade gasoline with Jesus. The sun was just setting to the west. The roof top was a rich tapestry woven by the sinking sun; rich filaments of red, yellow, and orange, broken jaggedly by its occupants' distended shadows. Screeching electric guitars and drums' rhythmic pounding floated up from the Road to Damascus, a bar whose soundtrack ran the gamut of classic rock, and which played little else. The World, which was an organic produce shop, ironically just above the kind of bar whose regulars spent almost as much time in the bathroom as outside of it on any given night, was closed.
Saul reclined, his polyester lawn chair felt cool against his bare back. "They're putting my rent up by fifty bucks next month, Jesus" Jesus pronounced with an h sound. "No wonder I can't get ahead in life. Everything just keeps getting more expensive. I mean, shit. How's a guy supposed to get ahead? I don't even have a television for Christ-sake." Saul took a swig of his pharmaceutical-grade gasoline.
"I know man, I know. It's a hard life, I can relate. My woman came home last night, drunk as fuck, started screamin', throwin shit around, just acting fuckin' crazy. No idea where the fuck she'd been. It was midnight and I'd only been home, oh. An hour or so. She starts callin' me Jesus" with a j sound. Saul chuckles, shaking his head. "Starts talkin abewt like, 'praise Jesus, perfect fuckin Jesus' and all this shit, drops to her knees bowing and shit."
"why the fuck?" asks Saul, perplexed, curious.
"I have no fuckin' idea.
"So what'd you do?" asked Saul.
Jesus turns towards Saul, he'd been staring off, blankly, towards the sunsest. He turns towards Saul, eyes deadly serious, grabbing him tightly by the shoulder. "I whipped my dick out. I unzipped my fly, slowly. I made eye contact. I removed my penis, which by the way is enormous, from my pants, and I slapped her with it."
Saul: You slapper her. With your dick?"
Jesus lets go of Saul's arm, chuckles. Saul
"Hosana in the highest", says Saul. The two burst out laughing.
Jesus is balancing his bottle of gasoline on his stomach, hands to either side. Saul kind of watches, kind of stares away, kind of interested, kind of not. The stomach, Saul's pretty sure, is the largest, roundest, most distended gut on any human being anywhere in the world. Jesus' penchant for loose-fitting clothing makes this deformity notably less apparent. When wearing a shirt. Jesus' penchant for removing said loose-fitting clothing, always when he's drunk or certain that he will soon be drunk, is a plain demonstration to the world of two truisms, thinks Saul: firstly, Jesus is an unstoppable force of nature, when drinking, and he should at all costs be kept far, far away from 'polite' society. Secondly, it's kind of ironic that the very thing that likely lead to Jesus' enormous gut is the only thing, short of forcibly removal his clothes (and really, who'd want to do that?), that can persuade Jesus to allow anyone to see it, his gut.
"Citlapetetl, brrm brrm brrm" muses Jesus, his gasoline bobbing as if on water as he inhales and exhales. "The volcano rumbles." Mutters Jesus. "From time immemorial, mere mortals have gazed up at the heavens, wondering, with quiet awe, what lurks atop primordial mountain ranges. Terrible gods demanding sacrifices, surely. Ravenous, horrible gods. The insatiable hunger of molten rock. The lips of the crater, the split into the abyss, the bowels of the earth" Jesus takes a sip, the bottle goes back to its original position. "aaaahhhh. The sacrifice. The gods are pleased. Om." Jesus draws out the m syllable, humming. Jesus' own bowels release the fermented reek of four day old beer farts.
Saul turns away from the stench, shielding his face with his sleeve, coughing. Jesus is laughing uproariously.
"Jesus, look", with a J sound this time. Saul points towards a pair of brand new sneakers, standing erect just south of his seat. The sneakers are red, with white soles and white laces. A five pointed blue star placed centrally in a white circle is printed on the side facing outwards of either shore. Circling the star, inside of the white circle, the word Converse is written in blue.
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I think I'm going to keep working on this one. I just kind of stopped here, for a bit.
User Reviews
Submitted by TheGoat (user info) at 2008-09-06 11:56:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2008-06-12 12:35:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i are ratings
Submitted by F.J.Bell (user info) at 2008-06-12 06:59:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by pandora (user info) at 2008-06-11 23:07:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2008-06-11 20:04:48 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This is three-beers wonderful.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-06-11 16:09:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by GangsterSquid (user info) at 2008-06-11 16:00:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
WWJD
Submitted by Ballare (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:59:05 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Submitted by Ltap (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:04:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This feels like a giant madlib.
Submitted by DudeThatsBOSH (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:49:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
this is about farting, isnt it
Submitted by Fey (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:47:00 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:33:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked it, and I like your conceptualization of Haysoos. Or Jesus, whatever. Drinking gasoline though, made me think of Bender on Futurama.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:30:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Its own body possesses the greatest possible beauty, being indeed that body which the soul will permanently inhabit, when all its phases have been repeated according to the number allotted: that which we call the clarified
Submitted by Fungah (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:21:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
And: Thanks Lishy. Your review's one of the most beautiful things I've read in a long time.
Submitted by Fungah (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:20:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
It's pretty rough. I'm going to kawork on it a lil beet.
Submitted by MANICMOTHER (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:15:24 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Doesn't need a comment
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:12:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:08:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
mmmmm...that's some amazing imagery.
"Ubeknownst to passer-bys, the day-glo people hang from their threads and sing, in the lilac breeze."
'Passers-by?' This is one of the most beautiful sentences I've read in a long time.
Submitted by Ltap (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:04:19 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This feels like a giant madlib. +2 for the time it must have taken.
Submitted by Poots (user info) at 2008-06-11 15:03:52 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
very funny
Submitted by Lib (user info) at 2008-06-11 14:43:01 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2008-06-11 14:38:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I smelled magnolia blossoms the whole time I was reading this.