bending the fabric of reality.
rave night. dozens of white middle class teenagers spasm on the dance floor.
form a circle. as someone styles away inside. fancy move this. fancy move
that. hits of acid being sold like the candy lollipops given away by
everyone out of their otherwise empty backpacks. you can tell the real
ravers. but then you always could. i watch. and play. time to mess with
their reality. time to give them something to think about. to help them grow
into individuals. instead of mass movement insecure zombies. even the
sub-culture can have its followers. only sometimes they can be worse. because
they think theyre independent. (no one can be independent. totally original
people. and no complete clones).
so ive gotten really good at bending the fabric of reality. i hand someone
some lady's bank card we found in a wallet once. i hang a print of a banana
i cut out of the newspaper on a wall. someone tells me its an andy worhol.
i think how appropriate. searching through my bag. going up to someone i hand
them a key. of a squat long busted. three hundred miles away. a bag of
silicate. here. dont eat this. in case you forget. its written right here.
do not eat. later on. same person. a piece of cotton. you can eat this. it
doesnt say do not eat on it. but it doesnt taste like much. stop some person.
did i give you your receipt. and i hand them my pink slip from this mornings
groceries. going around asking people if theyre the ones collecting lollipop
wrappers. but theyre the clear plastic kind. and people look at me as they
say no. one guy i have this long talk with. he ends up suggesting theyre a
different type of wrapper. i walk away and smile. a cup with a piece of paper
saying, do not look in this cup. and i yell at people when they do. handing
out writings. some mine. some others. postcards. pictures. anything. even old
rave flyers. finally. nothing left to give. so i ask people if theyve seen
abbey hoffman. because hes dead. and we dont want dead people hanging around
the club. bad for business. and it attracts flies. i tell them how william s
burroughs is a lot older than he used to be and how sex just isnt as good as
the real thing. anything. to confuse. to bewilder. some my own. most not. it
does not matter. authorship becomes as real as anything else. sometimes i
tell them the truth. other times i lie. depends on my mood. and in the end i
sit there laughing. at the joke they dont get. in the game theyre just
learning to play.
muse@musespace.com