The Place Where My Life Happens

If you can, try to imagine a twenty-seven by eight grid of yellow Post-It squares on a sheet of very dark blue construction paper. Spilt beverages. Now imagine the color of the paper darkens as it soaks, the yellow Post-Its lose their stickiness and they fall off, one by one, until only one, about five-eighths of the way up and a quarter of the way across, remains. Zoom. Find yourself inside of that Post-It, exploring.
Imagine yourself all alone, inside something that has the sole purpose in life to serve reminders. Remind yourself that everyone else left their reminders for tomorrow, but console yourself because you won't need to be reminded of anything. They will all be gone by the time everyone arrives. Stare at your reminders on the outside sides of a computer screen. Let's put that right in front of your face. Make it a Dell.
Would you kindly look above the top of the picture frame and see Ms. Honolulu wiggling her hips at you. That little white spot on her nose is harsh. The entire thing seems white. You should probably Sharpie that. Do it later.
The carpet with the little maroon rhombi glares unforgivingly at you. It remembers the day that you actually decided to lie down on it, take a nap, and then say you were looking for a dropped pen when Mr. Pinkleton came by. He also remembers the day you dropped that pen but left it there. He found it very, very boring company. You know the carpet in the other enclosures are way more friendly. But yours still bears the stain of the day you spilt your Bailey's infused Starbucks Venti non-fat mocha latte with soy milk on him. He never did forgive you for that. Mr. Plant also drips on him. He doesn't care for Mr. Plant either.
Mr. Plant cascades down at you in a very friendly manner today, his white tentacles reaching out, wanting to give you a hug. He's not yours, but you've kind of adopted him anyways. Nathalie wouldn't mind. Mr. Plant and you have always been friends. He wants to congratulate you on that magnificent report, tell you that you are worth something to the company.
You are worth something.
You are worth something.
You are worth something.
You are worth something, because you don't need reminders. You don't need the little yellow squares that go on your Dell that always fall off at inopportune times. You haven't fallen yet. And as the bartender tells the bloke who works across and to the right of you to go home after the second Scotch & Soda that he tipped over that evening, you smile, because you don't need reminders. Not you.
You don't need reminders.

The Crazies

Crazy people don’t just wake up one morning and decide to go crazy. A conscious decision isn’t made to go insane. It just happens. Slowly at first. Things start bothering them that never did before, and they start creating another sense of reality. The city spawns craziness. Nothing is as it seems.
This city, she is my lover and my mother. I am doomed. I am the faithful husband and stepchild, stepped on time after time after time after time after time. To think that I- alchemist of words- may be crazy. I do the same thing time after time after time after time after time and get the same results. The girls don’t change. The liquor doesn’t change. The city doesn’t change.
In your mind, however, it may. How scary would it be to be schizophrenic? To one day wake up and realize that, yes, you are insane, and your world doesn’t exist at all. What would a sane person do? Cry themselves even crazier, and likely enroll in some therapy program with padded walls, never to come out. But what would a crazy person do?
They would embrace their fate. Why not? The world they’re living in is undoubtedly better than the one we are all in. Their city gleans imperially, with a sun shining so bright it could brighten any Topshop Princess’ teeth. The man on roller skates with the tinfoil hat knows what’s up.
And he’s not sharing.
Why would he? He can laugh at us fools, blissfully accepting our boxed in fate, living the condo lifestyle made so popular by the Pepsi generation. His life is better than ours. And the city knows it. She must. Or else why would she create him?
Meet God. Née Joe Smith.
Meet the angels.

City Beat

There is the city holding open arms blinking smiling wildly Cheshire cat at me in the distance. There will be the ladies with their cocktail dresses that look like they want to do exactly just that drinking Appletinis in stilettos and Gucci one piece sunglasses. There will be the alley boys ripped middle jeans quarrelling quibbling and kicking pebbles into the eyes of each one buckled overalls other. There will be the high ups making merry madly absurdly with their fat men suits and red cheeks handlebar and on three rocks premium straight scotch. There will be the Mexicans looking like it’s Easter Sunday talking about Los Doyers and playing football á la Nerf world of MacArthur Park. There will be the teenage girls trying to look twenty one but of course it won’t work because their tops are so last year and that new hairstyle is bad as like whatever and she has a boyfriend who is her ex’s bff. There will be the hipper than thou indie children all looking alike but who cares man they are doing what they want when they want and not having children but it’s OK because the world is overpopulated anyways and more for me then. There will be the surfers all Abercrombie bodied with long sandy blonde hair and half a wetsuit with a Colgate smile blinding to Sun himself. There will be the gangsters shooting at color to win the war but what war the war of drugs and money dawg but they are all on a wrong level of each side of it anyways. There will be the ohmygoditssoandso movie stars walking down blood velvet carpets with their also famous wives featuring hideous Topshop dress and you’re looking kind of scruffy around the jowls yourself mister. There will be the homeless complete with tinfoil hat and roller skates and oddly stylish sunglasses caked dirt everywhere and I mean EVERYWHERE no you don’t look right here yes I do and howdy doo to you too don’t call me mister mister. There will be the rockstars filet o’ Hollywood Hills skinny fit black red combo night shaded screaming camera flash alcoholics. And there will be me piper of the city aimless but not directionless but who isn’t dude really c’mon man let’s bounce I’m down for a pizza and a beer charming keeper of words (l).

Sometimes

Sometimes it is fun to scream out obscenities and watch the tourists with their wide eyes and open mouths wonder "What's wrong with these people?"

Sometimes it is fun to pretend you are an important producer or designer and watch the tourists try to figure out who you are and say "I think he wrote Batman or something."

Sometimes the tourists ask you.

Sometimes the tourists get autographs.

Sometimes it is fun to be yourself, drunk on Tuesday at ten in the morning and watch the tourists with their wide eyes and open mouths wonder "What's wrong with these people?"