Mulholland Drive Was a Bad Movie

(This entry will be written without using the backspace ubtton. Also, it will make no attempt to make sense. Sense is for losers.)

Jonesy, don’t worry. They’ll never find us. For although there is dew on the pumpkins in the patch, there won’t be any traces left for the feds to use their infrared devices to identify us by our fingerprints. That is a run on sentence that doesn’t make any sense, I will admit, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. This entry is like fate careening towards you on train tracks and all you have to fend off this million mile an hour streak of metal and momentum is two sticks of gum, a thumbtack, 4 rubber bands, a wire hanger, and a roll of duct tape, plus the bare notion that a single copper coin and a rubber stopper would come in handy right now. And maybe you could rig something like macguyver if only you were allowed to think clearly. But you cannot think of anything but that girl on a train in Madrid, the one whose reflection you could see in the window as she lip synched the words to the soundtrack of your lives together, and your million dollar idea of coconut flavored jello, which you swear would be a hit in third world countries the very instant they rose to second world status. You cannot forgive yourself of your inability at the time to realize that she was from out of town too. Such a fact would only prove relevant in retrospect. And who doesn’t love coconuts, right? If onl y uou could clear your mind, you could be someone…

But this entry isn’t about being someone. Quite the contrary. It’s about subjecting oneself to seemingly random neural firings, as though one were at the end of a barrel on a gun belonging to a man who worked for a company that did contract work for governments that used firing lines. It is highly unlikely that said government cares about your guilt or innocence or if it is the wrong proverbial train is headed right at you. Indeed, what do governments know about justice and individuality?

These rule s are carved in stone. Limestone, yes, but stone nonetheless. Perhaps you could edit them. But alas, all the aliens left you with was an egg beater. And from this area code, you cannot even call a pizza delivery service for help. But getting back to the story…

I lied and told the girl that it was my fault – that I just wasn’t very good at my culture. But that is absurd. I’m very good at my culture. Everyone is. Even those whose culture it is to be bad at one’s culture. The problem is that I’m not very good at the culture that was my birthright. Instead, I’ve fashioned this one out of a bunch of stuff I stole from a consignment shop in Burbank. Your culture may have the weight of ten thousand generations, tyrannical governments, well-meaning monarchs, and the blood spilt from a half-dozen revolutions, but mine was forged purely from the creativity of a 12 year old boy without a decent pair of shoes nor a place to live. And damn it all if I won’t take mine toe to toe agastin yours, and heck, I’ll even spot you twenty. Planning does little good in the province of people becoming people. I know, I read Psychology Weekly.

Instead, I think a ’57 chevy is a mean machine. I will bke you a macaroni casserole from scratch. I will secretly plot against you, because I had concluded, even before I met you, that you had it coming. So, when you least expect it, I will jump out of the laundry hamper on that balcony of your 52^nd floor apartment in middle america while your kids play video games behind us in the living room and while your husband is in the bedroom getting ready for bed, and I will ask you, “Hey, good lookin. Do you remember that time I first said I loved you? And do you remember that card I gave you on that night with the poem inscribed on the left margin? It was tall and skinny, remember? Each line was only two words long and it didn’t rhyme, because you know how I hate rhythm. And I know it’s been a really long time, two or three lifetimes even, but I’ve come so far and no one is looking. Can you makybe close your eyes and sing that poem back to me? Your words, so high up right now, scraping the sky of this cold, windy city.” Granted, you can attempt to thwart my plan now by making a mental note to never place your laundry hamper on your balcony, but you know better than to tempt fate like that. And, you know as surely as I know right now that you’ve already forgotten the words that I would then be seeking.

These words I will borrow from the old lady selling flowers on franklin street. May the lord bless you and keep you from the devil’s grasp. These words I will borrow from the thunder. Be self-controlled. Give. Be Compassionate. These words will not actually be words but only the letters w and S and they will contain all that is true and universal in the world. If that isn’t patently obvious to you, it’s only because you didn’t look closely enough. One man once said, “Bruce Lee packing punches like brown bag lunches.” I disagree. It was mostly like lunches carried in lunch pales at construction sites in the 1950’s.

I hear the echo that tomorrow has made on the atmosphere before it got reflected back down to us in the form of the memory that we had been here before. Some call it Déjà vu, but the people in the know realize that it’s just elementary physics. We thought that maybe we had known each other in some past life, but it was just smoke and mirrors, nature screwing around with us with her illusions and discount pyrotechnics she picked up over the state line in Virginia because they really clamp down on that stuff in north carolina. It’s half the reason that you didn’t suspect anything. That sort of thing is illegal here. It was the other half of the reason that you had difficulty accounting for. One pundit suggested it had something to do with the smell of jasmine. He said that his opiion on the matter was fair and balanced. Another pundit said the first one was a fascist but did not proffer an opinion as to the other half of the reason himself. Some lady with a degree in classics said she was going to write children’s stories about it, but both pundits agreed that such books wouldn’t catch on. They forgot that people love half-truths.

This letter fell off the previous sentence “r” and I decided to give it its own sentence. Was it alanis morrissette that said that self-referetiality is ironic?

I’m tempted to stop writing, but I’m kinda curious how far you’ll read. Did you ever see the movie Mulholland Drive? That movie had no plot, no beginning, middle, or end, as far as I could tell, but I kept watching. Maybe that movie was written without using the backspace button. Has anyone made it down this far? If so, you’re ready for the big finish…

Eggs. Half-gallon of 2% milk. Wheat bread. Laundry detergent. Moon pies. Love. Band aids. Laxatives. Mars bar. Soap. Goats. The wind beneath my wings. Flood insurance. E Coli. Good deeds. Envelopes. Paper cups. Awe. Chocolate shavings. Burlap sack. Ouiji board. Ginger peach tea. Fireflies. Serendipity. A slow song by someone no longer living who had a lot of bass in his voice and all the things that people like you and me used to mean to one another. Preheat oven for 1450 degrees. Try to revel in the slow burn. Cool before consuming the end.