the dada magazine about nothing
N A D A
12:30, stomach growls right on cue. Plan: Head over to the casino, grab some conference food, sit at my desk and watch pussy power videos. At the door I hear my boss calling after me. He says we’re on lockdown, that no one can leave the building. I turn and look at him in dismay. He says an inmate escaped from his transfer officer and is roaming around campus. This is on the same day the crime report came out; stating no crimes had been committed on campus for the third year in a row. (Some asshole with a gun is trying to ruin my lunch plans.) Pushing through the doors takes little effort. I’m hungry dammit. My boss yells after me that it’s the rez, things are dangerous here, which is hilarious coming from a Midwestern white guy who dresses like an Easter egg. Anywhere else there would be guards patrolling or doing something else officious. But no, two security officers sit at the casino entrance lackadaisically chain smoking, waiting for the bad guy to show up. They tell me the building is on lock down. That no can leave and no one is admitted until the guy with a gun is apprehended. The door is barricaded and everything. Guy walks up, panting, taps on the glass. ‘What’s up cousin?’ Guy slips in the door and hugs the guard. Door shuts. Then everything became really funny.
I had to. It was juicy and well seasoned and my ramen packs were freshly emptied. After all – everyone knew Greg had no future. It’s not what you ‘d expect, There was no mountain, or alcohol no culturally relevant slicing of flesh, I was just hungry, and he hasn’t paid rent in months So there we were, Him – asleep. Me, digging a fork into my his side, It was so easy. Too easy. All the energy he poured into ear-screeching Aerosmith covers, loud phone sex, and marathon eating rendered him deep asleep. Now a deep roasted dead. I knew he’d taste good because He’d eaten all MY FOOD. One bite and I was sold, I got it, I understood the shady chefs who ordered human heads off Ebay. I felt a kinship with the countries and towns still openly sacrificing their own. Greg tasted more tender than he ever acted, and this marked a rebirth for both my morals and my taste buds. All it took was a forearm to fill me up, So I Tupperwared the rest, marking it “FRESH, CITY RANGE MEAT.” I felt new! The graveyard was now my limit! There were black market offshoot websites to visit! Seedy older men in bars to solicit for organs! Babies to poach! I Ate Human Flesh, and I’ve never looked better!
I saw you as the sun in a field that housed a steel mill amid acres of mental hospitals spilling over an endless welter of stone * After that day I've been throwing away all of my possessions, crying in closets, beneath sheets, and in random spurts in the middle of the day streets. murmuring litanies about the absolute perfection of your skull on the subway * I saw you in medicine cabinets of the sentences that I try to tease out of cheese cloth or idiotically smash against stone your eyes rearrange the insincerity of my words into the diamond thighs of a bionic Cervantes * I would be less than nothing without you * (A ghost imitating the crude maneuvering of starlight) * blood on fresh snow *
Proust, in all his wisdom, gave a lecture on the cowardice of a caress * Gertrude Stein on the futility of love * and finally Rimbaud on the ecstasy of losing yourself to 'the psychopathic murmurs enhanced and made lucid by the bones of a tongues bite. * I saw you as you faded and then appeared dressed in brilliance between a staircase and a lepers colony Florence Nightingale riding your coat-tails tracing your shadow, you were lonely, like a wrinkle and lovely like a crow. * Your eyes create the Alphabet ( I could say it for an eternity and it would get old)
I saw you in the old churches of Norway having a seizure or overcome with the h(a)oly spirit. even Merce Cunningham's jaw bone couldn't complete the cycle, I saw you me weeping like a toddler lost in a supermarket to a cement ocean all the while trying to cut myself a cleft lip, and when all is said and done, we weren't really that good together, anyways - like tandoori chicken cooked in a broth of coke colaall wrong from the start. * There are things worse than the grave, vultures grazing on your scalp, boredom, loneliness, telephones, and death. *
we just canâ€™t put our mouths around the names. * We chased each other into the basement of an abyss or the sleeping quarters of an abandoned factory, and in certain dreamsI still give chase over a (rambling) mountainside inside the stilted stride of a wounded SANTIAGO the eternal return * the maze of Seattle could be the maze of Connecticut and always this dance with complete strangers * I chase you and then you chase me our hands in our pockets and none of this is any fun. * It wasn't until Shakespeare came along that anyone could correctly utter the word: snake. A couple of tears, semen and drops of blood
stern like a field of lettuce among the pillars of Bed-Stuy - seen from the view of a hospital. * Furniture that is in bad taste. * Your nakedness was whittled beyond flesh and I laughed (in that moment) in the weird joy that we would lose each other in skyscrapers and the panels of the Pentagon our electromagnetic pulse sputtering at centipede speed. * but also at the pace of a whisper * irreversible loss covers everything in tones
Him with his foot in his mouth Yes, things in his mouth Severed tonguesâ€™ leverage pushed around her shoulder, Overexposed in cold window air through the thin junkie blanket threaded to her left side. Right hands, small, tugging at the foot in his mouth, still. The radioâ€™s on, repeating one song all night long
Sheâ€™d make a better man than him, Rhyming leaden with lady or woman: His leaden chest on hers, his arms a hymn of taut fiber, contracted tendons. Something to hold onto. He ought shave those features off for her to find yet another place to rest her hand. The radioâ€™s on, repeating one song all night long
We’ve come to the end of a line. Forty awful canyons lined up one against another like cuts from a cosmic butcher’s knife. You could crawl through them on your hands and knees if you wanted. It would take days to get to the otherside. There’s a predictable cycle to the days here: The wind comes in. People wake up. Everyone goes about their business in a predictable way. Things stop, people eat. The afternoon is spent lounging around. People eat again. The evening grinds to a halt. People pack in. The wind changes. They sleep. The world revolves like this in such an utterly predictable way. This is just the overview of course. Within these cycles are smaller one that complicate things slightly, but you’ve essentially understood the pace of life here without losing much at all.
No, I am trying to think of how to describe the people that live here. Letâ€™s get this straight right off the bat: Iâ€™m not one of them. I am more of a documentarian than anything, a journalist free floating. Theyâ€™ve accepted me regardless. They are not rejects, really, as this would indicate that someone out there noticed the people long enough to reject them. No, they are sort of the people who have fallen through the cracks in a horrendous way. The people who have been so lost to society that any niche they might have carved out in the world had simply shriveled up into nothingness. They are human wisps. Bits of smoke that have congealed for a short time into something that can be kicked around and overlooked before it disperses back into nothingness.
I could say there was a sadness around them or around this place but this would not be totally accurate. They have accepted their place in the world and, I think, feel more comfortable here than they would elsewhere. The feeling is a bit different, a bit more nuanced and certainly more affecting that mere, simple sadness. Of course here lies the issue: I never would have noticed one of these people in the outside world so I have no benchmark from which to compare them. They are well aware of their place. It could even be described as an affliction as, from what I can tell, most of them have done nothing actively to deserve this. True, there are a few that actively seek out the anonymity of this place. There are the people who enjoy the emptiness of this place. It is in some ways considered a noble burden here. Their attitude reminds me of the one held be certain doctors, in that they feel that they are somehow necessary for the continuation of the world. It is almost a haughtiness. Some feel this superiority while others have a deep sense of being much less important. It should be noted that a small group feeds a strange sort of militarism, more bluster than actual fighting gumption.
Would you be surprised if I told you there was a lot of sitting around? Idleness is a way of life here and holds a central importance. At first I found it excruciating, the hours spent just watching the world go by. I think I’ve come to grow used to it now. I think it’s important to note (and maybe a few of you will find this contradictory or impossible) that laziness is abhorred here. It is nearly impossible to get across the nuance here to someone from outside their community. For example: it is expected that one sit and watch the world go by for hours at a time, perhaps speaking a little or playing a game with a child. It is considered very bad taste however to sleep these hours away or simply ‘lay around’ inside. There were more than a few times that I found myself being scolded by a matronly type for breaching some minor variation of this rule. It seemed that the prime component here was observation. Not necessarily watching for some threat but more for the simple act of watching.
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