Cultural Landfill

I miss them… I miss myself.

(Source: mihsn)

monkeymcnamara:

It feels nice to be home. As much as I love to be away from it traveling around, meeting new people, having new adventures; it is great to just jump in bed and wake up and see your family. No matter how much they yell at one another and how dysfunctional everyone is, I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Good honest words of a good honest man

The fanfare is salt in the wound.  They cut the red ribbon and simultaneously slash the tires on my cab.  I am watching from inside of the shadow of the crowd, brooding in the back.  I remember my grandfather stewing in his stiff armchair at family gatherings about how his life had been taken away.  My father had found other ways to make a living and would laugh at his father’s melodrama and I would laugh along with him; stubborn old man stuck in his old ways refusing to hop on the train to modernity.  There are other drivers around me, but we don’t speak to one another.  It is as if we have gathered for a funeral.  They lean against their cabs, taking their caps off and running hands through their hair, looking down at the concrete.  They shake their heads and curse.  We have run out of ideas like the last drop of petrol, sputtering into a standstill.

The world moves at such a pace that it always stays just outside my reach.  I imagine the people in other countries looking up at the cold night sky, clinging to bottles of booze like grown up pacifiers, all moaning, over the same thing, that same thing that the average man can only best describe through different forms of the word fuck.  Whatever that thing is, a secret force that orchestrates the evasion of a fulfilling life to humankind.  I wonder if this way was meant to be, or if anything was meant to be at all.  What I do know is the more we grieve the less different I see myself from others. I feel our class runs deep and cold as the Atlantic, and I can stretch my hand out over it to meet someone like me.  In a way it comforts me, but we move through one another like ghosts on our constant amble down a road that crumbles behind us.  I imagine a day when no one makes the cut, and the last poor sap is thrown out of a system that only ever pretended to care about him. He drips out onto the pavement like the last drop of blood from a bled pig, strung up, severed like an umbilical cord.  Then those shining few, the chosen ones, they wipe their mouths of what’s left of us, the last sign that we were ever here, and take their final step into perfect shape. 

I wonder how many job positions there are for the train.  I suppose that later I’ll check the paper.