Spirals, Tides, and Pennies in a New Age
Spirals, Tides, and Pennies in a New Age
By Andrés Alfaro
I am an admitted desensitized entity. Before I knew them my forebearers had already presented me with the delights of cemeteries and shovels.
I presented them with a delightful smile. The hands in my pockets fiddle about while I watch from the grande metal bleachers as they toil in the spiral. Toil in the spiral, toil in the spiral. It leads my eyes to an infinitely distant point where I barely glimpse the first man to ever hunger, dying in the decaying ruins of a formerly vast ocean. Cracked earth and scattered weeds cake the surface that was once a vibrant habitat. As I stare fixedly at the point, the water of lore suddenly rushes around me, terrifying and deafening me all at once. It suddenly sounds like one of those days when the snow never ceases to fall outside, dull and languid. The tides become me as I become these tides of idleness, frozen suddenly yet carelessly as I struggle to pull my vision back from the spiral. It's a slow process requiring delicate motions, timed precisely.
Time, however, is (n)ever changing inside the vacuum of the phosphorescent spiral, which crackles and sparks and tends to smell musty; a musty aroma that has festered for no time and all of the time simultaneously. My vision is ultraviolet now, and the suns of my eyes look to be on the edge of exploding from the intense pressure of the spiral. It's as if one million galaxies were condensed into the simple size and shape of a penny. It's on my shoulders and i must support it or run the risk of failure. No one wants to be penniless, life would be hollow and deserted, like the dying floor of the ancient ocean. The weight of the penny, however, is too much to bear and i collapse under the pressure. Instantly I am salvaged from the spiral and the guilt of the tides that had overtaken me. I find myself once more in the midst of the pallid, metal bleachers. The sound of the sheep push me to smile again at the cemeteries and shovels that we spectate. I try to care about their culture of morals and ethics, but I am the product of a higher and more advanced order, incapable of feigning interest in the Olde World. All before 1980 is false! We now live in an age of machines and cryogenic freezing. Your shovels and cemeteries are tolling the bells of original sound much too late. These days I wake up to the high pitched squeal of digital noise, a symphony of magical sound. We grow stronger everyday, checkering the lives of those not already blessed with our influence with the class and civility they deserve. Clasp hands together now to wield our supersonic force upon the unwilling and hedonistic martyrs of yesterday. Let our electric gaze pierce the Earth and Sky from these spectator stands.
By Andrés Alfaro
I am an admitted desensitized entity. Before I knew them my forebearers had already presented me with the delights of cemeteries and shovels.
I presented them with a delightful smile. The hands in my pockets fiddle about while I watch from the grande metal bleachers as they toil in the spiral. Toil in the spiral, toil in the spiral. It leads my eyes to an infinitely distant point where I barely glimpse the first man to ever hunger, dying in the decaying ruins of a formerly vast ocean. Cracked earth and scattered weeds cake the surface that was once a vibrant habitat. As I stare fixedly at the point, the water of lore suddenly rushes around me, terrifying and deafening me all at once. It suddenly sounds like one of those days when the snow never ceases to fall outside, dull and languid. The tides become me as I become these tides of idleness, frozen suddenly yet carelessly as I struggle to pull my vision back from the spiral. It's a slow process requiring delicate motions, timed precisely.
Time, however, is (n)ever changing inside the vacuum of the phosphorescent spiral, which crackles and sparks and tends to smell musty; a musty aroma that has festered for no time and all of the time simultaneously. My vision is ultraviolet now, and the suns of my eyes look to be on the edge of exploding from the intense pressure of the spiral. It's as if one million galaxies were condensed into the simple size and shape of a penny. It's on my shoulders and i must support it or run the risk of failure. No one wants to be penniless, life would be hollow and deserted, like the dying floor of the ancient ocean. The weight of the penny, however, is too much to bear and i collapse under the pressure. Instantly I am salvaged from the spiral and the guilt of the tides that had overtaken me. I find myself once more in the midst of the pallid, metal bleachers. The sound of the sheep push me to smile again at the cemeteries and shovels that we spectate. I try to care about their culture of morals and ethics, but I am the product of a higher and more advanced order, incapable of feigning interest in the Olde World. All before 1980 is false! We now live in an age of machines and cryogenic freezing. Your shovels and cemeteries are tolling the bells of original sound much too late. These days I wake up to the high pitched squeal of digital noise, a symphony of magical sound. We grow stronger everyday, checkering the lives of those not already blessed with our influence with the class and civility they deserve. Clasp hands together now to wield our supersonic force upon the unwilling and hedonistic martyrs of yesterday. Let our electric gaze pierce the Earth and Sky from these spectator stands.