I would like to have been told the truth as a child of altered states, news as entertainment and baldness. As an oblivious youth masquerading as mature while dirtying new white denims, slipping in muck, I allowed for history as a whole unit. Everything had happened before, long before, and this steadfast acceptance bore fantasies sparked by a chalk scrawled eulogy on a cement wall.
“Kurt Cobain R.I.P.”
Processed as a historical footnote to my own existence, where time really first took root and spread it’s branches into the lives of those I knew, a rock stars death, like the crumbling of the Berlin Wall, was alternate to my reality and a less important universe. Incidents like these, illustrating the great wild world and its black-toothed truths, were ill placed in a child whose mind extended no further than pyjamas smelling of piss.
My ruminations now are ceaseless under this sun and they journey further than my few geographical travels. I imagine a youthful 1980 floating naked in darkness, reverting to its earliest genetic memory, January 1st. In front of a mirror, it runs its hand through a thick head of blonde hair, swishing water about simian fangs. In 366 days loose strands mildly dull the shine of an experienced cranium. On the cusp of a new year, being made flesh again, existence without hair is as satisfying as with. Pinches and slaps are in the transition, the twilight of the scalp.