Scene 9
The night was supposed to be great. I gave my pleasures to the hands of reality. After the big movie weekend I was not worn out and I decided to see this preview. Obscure crew and name, without a single description that makes sense, and in a theater I’d never been to. Give it a chance I thought, on this busy swirling Monday night.
’t was a deserted garden, big parking lot, crowded restaurant, ejaculating springs. It has the obvious straining effort for preserving non-existing historic scenery. Indian incenses, Japanese make-ups, artificial pearls, and craftsmen all cramming this little palace city with golden roofs and mercury lights, oh and that circling train reminded me nothing but Disney fantasies. Have the people any goal other than burning out their time…has this place any past that it could possibly take such glorious pride in…There’s a Barnes & Noble right across the street, where lying on the shelves fictions with the same covers, collector items with shining frames, hard-covers that blatantly promise you big fortune, and legends about the celeb’s or celeb-to-be’s. Is this the world we created…is this the world we invaded…?
I was early for the movie, yet late for the line. The invitation was a piece of trash, and the well-dressed gentlemen didn’t even attempt to fake a regretful face. Guardian after guardian for this obscure work, and no one was complaining. Why should they. I started to remember and fantasize how the Pacific at Sherman Oaks was such a wonderland, where I brought my invitation and stayed for two optional features just two days before. Or the James Bridge on campus. How nostalgia I am in this spring break, yearning for those days I walked in with my CD player and just sat down waiting for the start with no previews/ commercials, as if everything was well-established and peacefully- insinuated. But here at the Grove, my first time in this palace garden, the lobby was ice-cold and the guards were even worse. I’m here for the pleasure and the makers for the promotion. What are they working for, do they realize…?
And so I stepped out, watching the spring shooting up high with some version of “I got you under my skin”. It looked Viagrized (if there is such a thing), lively without affection, not even for itself. Why not, thought I, since this was the splendid place and people are here to improve their lives. Yeah with all the alluring pictures hanging in the boutique windows, the defined-as-sensual incenses, and people’s coldness, it can’t be more professional for a high-class prostitute. A prostitute for the rich…
On the way back I degraded myself towards it. I suddenly realized how the society works outside academia. Not that I didn’t know it before, it was just…enhanced, like the sound on an xrcd, all the details accurately positioned and amplified. I traded an invitation for a determination, one with further resilience. Money has to come, and as the cliché goes, “all this has to be answered for”.
I’ll be back, for the Grove-Pro.
’t was a deserted garden, big parking lot, crowded restaurant, ejaculating springs. It has the obvious straining effort for preserving non-existing historic scenery. Indian incenses, Japanese make-ups, artificial pearls, and craftsmen all cramming this little palace city with golden roofs and mercury lights, oh and that circling train reminded me nothing but Disney fantasies. Have the people any goal other than burning out their time…has this place any past that it could possibly take such glorious pride in…There’s a Barnes & Noble right across the street, where lying on the shelves fictions with the same covers, collector items with shining frames, hard-covers that blatantly promise you big fortune, and legends about the celeb’s or celeb-to-be’s. Is this the world we created…is this the world we invaded…?
I was early for the movie, yet late for the line. The invitation was a piece of trash, and the well-dressed gentlemen didn’t even attempt to fake a regretful face. Guardian after guardian for this obscure work, and no one was complaining. Why should they. I started to remember and fantasize how the Pacific at Sherman Oaks was such a wonderland, where I brought my invitation and stayed for two optional features just two days before. Or the James Bridge on campus. How nostalgia I am in this spring break, yearning for those days I walked in with my CD player and just sat down waiting for the start with no previews/ commercials, as if everything was well-established and peacefully- insinuated. But here at the Grove, my first time in this palace garden, the lobby was ice-cold and the guards were even worse. I’m here for the pleasure and the makers for the promotion. What are they working for, do they realize…?
And so I stepped out, watching the spring shooting up high with some version of “I got you under my skin”. It looked Viagrized (if there is such a thing), lively without affection, not even for itself. Why not, thought I, since this was the splendid place and people are here to improve their lives. Yeah with all the alluring pictures hanging in the boutique windows, the defined-as-sensual incenses, and people’s coldness, it can’t be more professional for a high-class prostitute. A prostitute for the rich…
On the way back I degraded myself towards it. I suddenly realized how the society works outside academia. Not that I didn’t know it before, it was just…enhanced, like the sound on an xrcd, all the details accurately positioned and amplified. I traded an invitation for a determination, one with further resilience. Money has to come, and as the cliché goes, “all this has to be answered for”.
I’ll be back, for the Grove-Pro.
posted by David | 11:39 AM
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