Dead Air Space

I wrote an amazing essay about the winter and about Schrödinger’s Cat in my dream last night, but a ghost stole it, and I think that’s why, when I woke up I completely forgot it. I am very sad.

I was the ariel pink interviewer because andrew denton wasn’t free and doesn’t know who the fuck ariel pink is anyway.

We watched a girl pull a snake out of her vagina, but it was really long so I fast forwarded, and an old woman who not acting her age. Googoogaga, fuck me, fuck me.

 

Then ariel pink slipped his fingers up a girl because she was wearing a purple velvet slip, but I was confused because it was actually satin. He asked if he could put his fingers in my vagina, and I said only if I could put mine in his. 

 

Then he started shooting everyone and me and my baby panda had to flee the scene. It followed me everywhere, but I think a wolf ate its leg so I had to put it down. I had to keep moving and I didn’t have a skateboard like the rest of the people, but I did have acrobatic skills.

 

Aliens arrived and began to obliterate everyone who was standing inside the squares marked with dancing red lights, so you had to do breaststroke through the air to avoid them. There were tiny spaces marked off with red tape, and if you stood in them you were safe, so my acrobatic talents helped me leap from table top to table top. Flying sauces kept popping in out of thin air and shooting their ray guns, but I was quick and could avoid them. Who the fuck knows where ariel pink was at this point, probably swimming naked in the pool where the interview was held. 

 

There was another guest who ariel pink brought on the show. She was a fanatic young girl, chubby, of about 10, and not at all her own fault that she was a gapped toothed bitch. She was pressured into allowing one of his minions to tattoo her body, and as a reward received a multi-million dollar sum. We all cried when we saw her body being defecated by awfully drawn love hearts and genitals, but we couldn’t do a damn thing.

 

She was shown in tabloid newspapers years later, as a skinnier, prettier girl, who dealt with the tattoos by always being naked, but her father had kicked her and her sisters out of the house as trash. Her millions bought her a decrepit castle which would have been beautiful once but was now infested with fleas. It’s labyrinth-like rooms became a secret hideout from the aliens, whose faces I never saw. 

She, who comes from the water, wraps her vine-like legs around my body, binding my limbs, enclosed on my throat. They are wet, and covered with a blanket of short hair, bristling with an electricity which comes with the kills.

She is naked, except for this hair, and she moves like a spider across its web, with seemingly chaotic instruction, but each step is precise and forms an intricate performance across the surface of the water.

Her tentacles melt into my skin, refusing oxygen’s passage to my brain. Slowly, i fade.

In a distant memory i can see my life in my blood, my consciousness as a mixture of dancing red and white blood cells, skipping through each vein. In my final moments of lucidity i take my fingernails and gouge into my belly, letting my blood pour into the water, leaving only a shell behind.

As the blood, as myself, disperses into the water i feel a clear chill, but cannot place where i feel it - it seems it should run down my back, but with a back gone, it is felt in each potential moment of backness, in each cell, but also in the absence of a cell, in the spaces in between. 

The water ripples, as if with a breath, and forms two hands, taking hold of the vine create and pulling her under.

In her shock she forgets how to breath and so gulps me down. In her, i spread and envelop myself around her blood cells and i eat them. I eat them all until i am full and then i become her and gently float away, leaving behind parts of myself in the water and in the roots and in the mosquitoes and eventually there is a thin layer of myself in everything and i am everything, but i am nowhere.

I am that man who is climbing towards death, death on a pedestal, reaching for him, but with his feet trapped in rock and it grows over him, he cannot move, and it eventually overcomes him.

And he wakes up and finds himself being eaten over and over again by maggots and he knows he’s been there for a hundred years. They eat at his hand and it reappears and they eat it again and he cannot shake them off. They suck at his fingers.

The scene flickers like a record stuck on a scratch. And i’m screaming.

I see you in the corner of my eye, stuck in between reality and another world, having been watching me for a hundred years, moving your fingers along an imaginary keyboard, constantly performing this pantomime of speaking but writing, as if to narrate your own life.

You haven’t gotten any better, you have gotten worse, and you look at me with a curiosity as if you don’t remember those years we were together. Maybe it was something you wrote down ten thousand pages ago, but you figure you made it up, like you made the whole world up and i am actually not real.

But i am real; and i am stuck in a loop of being eaten by maggots, my hand reaching up, reaching up to push the giant one away and the blood around my mouth has dried and a giant eye stares back at me through my hand and i know this will never end, never into infinity.