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you're waking up to an alarm which has been set for 5:45 in the morning. the lights are all out and lampposts dimly light the glorified alleyways. there are few cars scraping the dirt paths. blurs of dogs confuse the employees of a streetside food stall; birds are mad to be awake but they do their thing.
you're stuck in a mass of people. there are seemingly endless little fingers grasping at parents' shirts; rows of giddy feet tucked into little squeaking shoes run rampant without a clear course. there's a booth to the right where a bunch of female dancers who are quite fit and fitted, are preparing to do a little musical skit with a child star. you can't help but stare at the brilliantly angled costumes with the bodies slipping into them with beautiful complicity; the cut of knee-high boots looking spectacular. you're wondering if it's so wrong to be staring thus, and thinking these thoughts on children's day.
you're heading to shoot some DV footage in a supersupermarket; the entire place smells faintly of prepared bakery goods and deep-fried delicacies. some managers look at you thinking to themselves, "i wonder if he's allowed to be here?" you're wearing a pink shirt which is the uniform, and you're thinking, "i wonder if i really am attached to this job at all?"
you're fuming in the brain and it's beginning to show in the flush of your body. seethingly frustrated thoughts paralleling interstellar galaxies exploding, are all setting off in the gray matter between your hot ears. you have altogether no intention to return to the office on your day off to do some menial trivialities for your boss, but you do anyways because you're chicken shit.
you're walking out of the theatre. there weren't many people but you enjoyed yourself. both you and your friend dylan were both pleasantly surprised at how much National Treasure didn't suck, despite all of the obvious Disneyisms inherent all over the production. also oddly enough, you're thinking to yourself that history, if distributed to the public in a subtle general way, could secretly learn all them peoples some knowledge n a really entertaining way.
you're watching this tiny girl screaming her head off in writhingly empowering performance ecstasy. her bandmates are in the throes of rock n' roll bliss; the slow scintillating disco balls' reflected lights clashing rhythm-wise, with their exhilarated pace. from bottom to top, she has on: oversized skull motif fake hi-top cons/bubblegums, just under knee-high horizontal striped socks [which are hot(!!)], pleated ruffled skirt which covers as well as uncovers and comes to mid-thigh, salmon pink muted boatneck top with the excess material bunched at the torso which create puffy shoulders, hair done up in two buns which are loose and lovely. you're trying hard not to stare, but you are transfixed and are planning to take some photos, if only you could find the strength to lift your camera to your face while standing hypnotized by the visual blessing that is this wiggling screaming rockhardy grrl.
you're sitting with the most random people in a muslim restaurant named sherarizad. you're trying hard not to take into the fact that everyone is hella loud in tone, and that everyone is looking at your table and its loudness, but you can horridly justify it with the collective consumption of alcohol and the food which arrives which is tops. to your right sits the most peculiar person ever; the stuff coming out of his mouth is randomly baffling and you're trying to decide if it's interesting or 3am-babbling; he has in his possesion a lighter that has a little blue light-up plane flying into a design of the twin towers. you know it's horridly wrong, but there's something fascinating about even the concept of such an item existing, of which you cannot ignore. for some dumb-ass reason you cannot stop listing all of the stupid shit you can think of, that has anything to do with england whether specific or broad in its cultural relevance. the two brits at the table don't really seem to mind, but you can't help feeling that they have tiny daggers in their eyes with your name on them, poised and awaiting the right moment.
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