Fictions

L.A. is a strip mall. It’s like the bad neighborhood in everybody’s city, the outskirts, the sprawl. You watch people walking--there’s a guy with a leather backpack, colored purple and red, looking both bruised and colorful. His legs are tanned, hair yellow, he’s got a smile on his face that’s not quite happy. What’s in the bag? Where did he buy such a god-ugly bag and why? And he’s just one person among many. An overwhelming number of minds. You see enough millions of these people, so many private worlds, it feels like swimming in the ocean. Not drowning exactly, just water everywhere.
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Feeling much better today. Got my microphone yesterday, another SM57. Recorded some last night. I don’t know why I always forget that I like doing that. Started working on a song that I like, about my wife and I, with lyrics that begin:

come on inside
sit by the fire
it’s on tv
and we can make believe
we’re watching news.

let’s take a ride
on our hard drive
we’ll cure the virus
spreading like the measles
of our youth

Our new plan is to get a smudge stick.

Pretty New Age-y but we’re not opposed to it. My wife has been coming home from the library with piles of books about detoxing. We’ve got too many bad habits built up in our home. Whatever works. We have this little box that is supposed to clear electromagnetic interference. I’ll believe anything for five minutes.