Experimental Prose

Drifting

The sky was littered with giant, colorful foil potato chip bags instead of billowy clouds. It seemed strange, but everything seems strange these days. The highways and expressways are choked with vehicles resembling cordless electric shavers. And I wonder how much worse it would be if all the shavers had cords attached during rush hour. But none of that idyl thought really matters. Stuff gets made up every day, everything changes and it’s a whole new ballgame. Taking an educated guess isn’t even fun or interesting anymore. These days, no one can ever guess what’s coming next.

Then again who cares? Aren’t we at the top of the food chain content with the diversity of social dementia and the repetition of commercial propaganda. Once you surrender your sympathies and let your sanity go free, a great weight of expectation is lifted from your shoulders. Buildings used to be made of steel girders, marble and glass. Now they’re just towering rubber monoliths with zipper doors and alligator escalators. It’s a new day, a new dawn, a new world. A new promotional ad campaign war.

Ah, movies imitating life and life imitating movies, you just can’t get any better, more balanced than that. Belly-up to the concession counter, super-sized buttered popcorn for everyone. A lonely chiming of cuckoos echo through the deep woods and the screech of tires just before a resounding thud from hitting a deer caught in the headlights, beats watching a lot of blurry CCTV video of muggings and flash-mob riots and despicable personal habits loop-clipped for twenty-four hour consumption on a flat screen television mounted on a studio apartment wall at three in the morning, any day of the week.

A couple of irregular, triangle-ish chips fell from one of the bags drifting across the sky and plummeted heavily to earth, sticking in the ground like two giant tomahawk blades sunk into the white-man skulls of Mt. Rushmore.  A thousand years from now, academic archeologists will think the petrified chips are primitive monoliths. I think artifact hunters have just as much right to their perceptions of reality as we currently declare a right to ours.

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