Saturday, May 26, 2007

The William Hurt Experience

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.


  1. The mention of white jeans left me in a cold sweat.

    Horrible days.