Friday, December 11, 2015

Colorless Smoke



"As he gazed at the four names on the screen, and considered the memories those names brought back, he felt the past silently mingling with the present, as a time that should have been long gone hovered in the air around him. Like odorless, colorless smoke leaking into the room through a small crack in the door."

Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage by Haruki Murakami

4 comments:

  1. As I wander the arboretum at dusk pondering memories past, I sense the resinous aroma of the finest hydroponically grown cannabis emanating from the ether. Recollections of an adventurous youth spring forth, and a fond reminiscence of toking an enormous spliff with my roaddog Bombudz in Brush Alley are reality but for a brief sliver of time.

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    Replies
    1. Beautiful. Just beautiful. I'm glad Flint Expats has taken such a deeply poetic turn.

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    2. Very nice Gator. I need a Lemon 714 now.

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  2. Choices. Informed choices. Limited options. A random selection.

    The Memorex C-90 clicks into position. Press Play>. Gears dutifully rotate like the assembly lines of our fathers. Spindles spin, motors whirr, a temporary pause || ...

    toned out synthetic strings and monotonous drones give way voices pretentious- is this BlancMange or Depeche Mode or some other bullshit? It matters naught- the point is moot, there is no mute / protest must wait.

    A ceremony. Ritual. Imperfect. Routine. Recollections cached.

    An opaque turquoise moument sits atop the speaker- a brand new glass bong bought at that stupid fucking place in the Small Mall has been hastily prepared. Seeds are separated from sensimilia, like wheat from chaff. Tap water floods the bulbous chamber. A packed bowl. A cheap-ass lighter from 777, the kind that doesn't always spark... but this is Flint. Earth. Water. Fire...

    wind...


    Phases shift and time slows like the warble of creased tape. An abduction scenario.

    In this cellar, ash is all that remains. The cycling sounds have ceased but for the subtle static hiss of a well-worn magnetic cassette- ethereal but still alive, present but for a few more moments, background white noise, an electrical spectre. Thence a sudden clack. Stop. X.

    Fast forward >> to the present. There is no sound other than the hum of electricity. No opaque monuments. Solitary, but for a flame, a pinner, and a decision…

    Eject^.

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