Thursday, December 03, 2009

Cultural Tidal Wave

I sit perched on my bed, alone in the dark, alive in my own world, the room is illuminated by the flickering flame of a Bic.

I throw on a sweater and some pants, and answer the door, flicking the bare lightbulb overhead on, the small cold room now has enough light to see all the smoke hanging in the air. The door swings open and a beautiful little pixie walks in.

We sit and talk, inhaling the precious fairy dust, red eyed from the burning fires in our minds, young and lost in thought, refugees from the world, society and everyone else.

The curly blond haired Goddess walks into the room, beconning us to leave our humble sanctuary, to meet the world and explore the main floor of this dilapidated building, crumbling bricks in a crumbling society, will the house or civilization as we know it crumble first..

We find ourselves in the dirty kitchen, now ushered into a more hospitable room. I land on a couch, and fall into a trance. The walls are close and red, curtains and Persian sheets enclose us, beds, chairs and couches full of souls, the pixie starts dancing with a beautiful belly dancer wearing jeans, rag tag beauty flowing through the room, the sounds of the world fill the room, the tribal drums and soft voices from afar, I could be in a tent in Arabia decades ago, watching the native beauties dance while British and American business spies fill their tanks with oil and money, the promise of power for the locals to remain friendly, the world bough, packaged and sold, under the cover of darkness, the secrets of the world are all imaginable.

The sex Goddess, assembles the electric hookah, and I pour a few grams of master kush pollen atop the gummy tobacco. The music dies while a new track cues, and the sizzling sparkles of the coal flash and zap, an intense fury of sparks, heavy duty lung power is summoned, and the smoke starts to billow, coconut cream and hashish, the headrush hits like a Ewok tree trap, a massive log swinging towards my head, it hits like an environmental Mack truck, the quintessential mind fuck, its Pi roaring at your head, top down with the turbo whirling.

The Goddess, the pixie and the denim clad belly dancer, are cast in the glowing pastel colors of the hookah, at one with each other, combined they flow to the tribal drumming as I assert myself in between smoke inhalation.

I tell the retarded Sheik, that voting is useless, and that democracy is an illusion. I describe the proletariats inability to properly select leadership for government, but reality is lost on those idealists who think they can actually matter, while the only people that matter are the ones that go into the tents of kings and declare how much oil they need, and how many guns they have, the people are not, were they ever in power, they simply feel in love with the idea and the media fed it to them all. The greatest injustices, cloaked in darkness, shrouded from the public without microscopes, are beyond the people to rectify, as they are still lead by the dark Sheppard, who points to the light in the sky, always there, always above you, always just out of reach.

The magic is weening for the night, but its only starting to build in my mind, the electrons suddenly charged and firing, the metal fireworks of anything the mind can imagine, infinite possibles of the sweet dream world.

Robbed of the flowing eye candy, the little pixie and the belly dancer, leave our tent for the cold air of winter in Canada, the Sheik taps a drum quietly in a chair as we suck the delicious smoke, the Goddess and a snowboarding oil worker and I.

The hose feeds me the smoke and my mind reals, low O2 levels leave me lightheaded as a warp through the worlds in my head, the electric lights and dirty streets of the next great metropolis await, burning in the future, while the past lingers, the history of ninjas, spies, and the people that never mattered, the peoples whose names are forgotten, their life long work named and profited by others, the injustices of life, inescapable.

My head starts to spin, the past was bleak, the present is bleak as fuck, and the future is bleak as well, progress seems to be a dream, as the human race still hasn't progressed beyond killing and exploiting our fellow man, the physical world caught up with money and power, silent players moving the pieces, the people again left at the bottom. The reliance of the digital world on physical infrastructure leaves the once great bastion of freedom, under the thumb of a hegemonic empire, the great digital hub sitting under the silent watchers in the shadows, leaving the dream world to be the only free place for a mind to wait out our days, waiting for nirvana, hoping for something better than hell on earth. Not enough oxygen and the rooms starts to spin, the wet paint of the great artists starts to gain momentum and spins and blurs, colour streaks through the night as the world melts in my mind, I run from the tent, the beauty of the pixie and the belly dancer gone, I feel alone, the Goddess and the snow boarder wrapped into one, the Sheik still playing the drum, I make my way to the washroom wear I vomit quickly, then stealthily march to my room.

I lay on my bed, alone and content, lost in my mind, silence echo across the landscape of dirty closes and the flashing lights of electronics. The mind swirls the thoughts in a rich intoxication, information and dreams intermingle, reality blurred through the cranium, alone I dream in bliss.

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