I have retreated into the basement to write under the watchful eyes of strange tribal masks. A most peculiar contraption used for running in place stands behind me (the confusion over this clouds my thoughts), law journals adorned with elaborate gold inscriptions gather dust to my left, a large machine sputters – I have come to understand that its purpose is to push cooled air into the many rooms of the house. My nose is suddenly overwhelmed with the stench of death, and I silently mourn the hundreds of bug lives lost in the cracks. There sits a freezer at my back -- filled with paranoia I nervously glance over my shoulder; waiting for the zombie corpse victim to emerge, hungry and vengeful. The square electronic typing machine I once used, with the curious name of "Dell" printed on its front, has malfunctioned and I am unable to use the top and bottom left of what I have learned to be the keyboard. For someone with an extensive vocabulary as mine (puffs chest), the missing letters present a problem. When I realized that I was no longer able to type the word fuck, I gathered supplies -- black cherry yoghurt stolen from the ice box, my journal, a blue sharpie, and spoon – tied them up in my knapsack and descended the two flights of stairs into the basement. I fear that my host family will soon discover the missing yoghurt and that I too will find the basement freezer as my final resting place.
My rear end has frozen to a metal folding chair in the sub-arctic temperatures of the basement; with teeth chattering and frost bitten toes, I sit in a white sweater and hot pink leg warmers. My fingers stride across "Sally," the forgotten family computer -- exiled to the basement when a newer model was created. She is a classic beauty; her ancient monitor and lack of speakers allow only the music in my head for butt wiggling and foot taps.
I reflect upon the night that has passed. My guide amongst this bizarre culture took me to the most amusing place. A place where many of these curious people sit in a dark theatre, lick their fingers of some chemical compound they call "liquid butter," drink from large cups filled to the top with a dark carbonated elixir, and stare, while bits of buttered popcorn drop down their clothes, at the large screen.
I find the men of this tribe to be of the most unusual and highly arousing appearance. I have observed their attempts at monogamy with the women of the tribe, and have found the wandering gaze present in the males to be worthy of study. In the lands from which I hail the men are only allowed to look at the woman with whom they have been bound. If they should look at another woman they are branded defective, and promptly sent to quarantine where they live the remainder of their days with the animals. Not surprisingly, bestiality occurs in high percentages in our village.
Last night I encountered a young male with beautiful art decorating his arms. This male seemed to be bound to another young female of the same tribe. I wore the traditional dress of my village – ripped black jeans, purple tank top, and black rose in my hair. I found that my pale exterior stood out against the backdrop of bronzed legs clad only in denim shorts. The male bore his eyes into me as we formed what is called "a line." He removed the layers of my outer garments, and consumed what lay underneath. I prepared myself for the attack of the female; I hunched my back and curled my lower lip, but she did not advance to exert her dominance, and the male locked his black eyes onto mine. With no knowledge of how to act in such a predicament, I did what females of my tribe do when confronted with a defunct male – rolled my eyes and lifted my head high. The young female looked in my direction as we picked our way through red backed seats; I offered a smile of sympathy with the undertones of disapproval.
We exited the theatre with the moon high in the sky. The wind blew through the rips of my jeans and I wondered if I could one day assimilate into this foreign tribe. I looked to the stars and sighed in longing for the men of my tribe, but then I remembered; as if hit with the warm side of a hand, that long ago the men of my tribe had been wiped out by the men's magazine, strip club, and MTV.
Fuck.
Sincerely,
The Observer
"Anyone who has ever had a heart wouldn't turn around and break it"
No comments:
Post a Comment