Wednesday, 14 September 2011

ffreewrite # 444 (cycling and recycling a difficult time)

La Verite was nowhere to be found. Faux F saw to it, the absence. In a tap of the toes FF took over the town. A chill cast over the roads trees dirt homes faces ankles toes toenails. Toenails soft as reflections bent around the way only to be bent back around. Compensation had long ago, long long ago you know, fled the sapling exchange-post. Some kinda store. Little Bit took off as much as she could chew. Such was her purpose so to do. The red book she swore by, see, back was broken and quite mostly paper maiche- in look, not essence, kinda book you actually read, ya kinda book if you could you would read and read all day...Essential, said book.  But no longer readable. Broken down and put out to pasture. Replaced by a goddamn kindle! Oh no! Tragic? you would think so! Until the world turned green, and so many retired books and tapes and godawful 8-trax all suddenty felt the heat of the sunlight again, valued again, all of them! Recyclables! Like even after she got through mashin' the shit out of it, too! Who? Little LilBit. True. Truetrue. She rejected all she knew. All her life. She was about 28. Saturn come round.

Fuck If I Knew met Act like U Know in the street that day. Their four eyes cast solid between them. In a sound, a sound resound, they did meet. The solid cast caste eyes of cold steel gaze. used to cold steel ways and forays. Stone on stone and stone cold, too. They cornered the day's stone cold market. Cornered, quartered, drawn, iced. Then sent to be refabricate and back to 6/10ths of all 7/11s in stamped lottery fare scratched out by bored coin thrown here, thrown there. Too casually placed to attract what everyone never wanted to attract, mostly -- stares. Faux Froid made sure to oil the streets for this very equation, however. The referent to this will not be put out front. Main street will let the side alleypass scuffles continue. You and me will endure it without a choice in the matter. Its not ours to choose. The odds predict neither win, nor lose. Not mathematical but street made occcasion. Upon them. Upon the street. Body. Bodies. Body upon body. Upon bodies. All was stacked and Stacked was not favoring Nobody!

 Nobody had become quite accustomed to the comfort of being very non-celeb in the non-profit world in which she lived. Some suggest profited, too. No matter! Nobody basked in the space made for her wherever she went, she commented often to her friends Somebody, Everybody, G.Money, Jane Smith, and all the spirits in between how one must feel the wonder and appreciate the beauty of the spaces between bodies at this modern age delivered them. Such a primitive and yet prodigious commentary was unheard of. Nobody could efface the English language in any such which way. anywhichwaybutblue! came across the neurons and fired them for the statement preceding. Contradictions must be contradicted. Even if this meant life must go on this way, and endless series of contradictions contradicing and splicing contradictions. Afflicted with afflictions, some were. Nobody always knew. There were often a few kids meanwhile caught like in spiderwebs, tied up in her hemm. Nobodys, thats Who!

 She held the boundary there. Everybody knew it. Somebody said something. G.Money thought to profit, c.r.e.a.m. -siecle. While Jane Smith still was so busy answering wrong numbers on her home line, poor thang never caught up with the times and got berated on talk show generics, for not showing any kinda open mind even to her unfair treatment of her twelve year old daughter. her twelve year old daughters six year old fascination turned cool interest in rap music. The white association in this case was transparent to most if not all, even nobody. Fear of interracial goings on! Loving, sexing, seeding, breeding, Jane called it. She funneled all this goddamn crap (with great fear left behind, where it counts) down the same drains her CEO husband Jon Smith X built expressly to run the drainage of daily thermal nuclear wasteproduct produced by his brilliance: aka side effect style.                    

She did not dare Narc on him though whites knew the siphoning to be as surreptitious as it was dangerous down the river a ways. down where the white community and real estate parted ways. down far enough and away to be handed off shamelessly to areas unincorporated and lesser know than that! who knows and who cares lands! where gathered en masse those negroes who frightened her and hers by their difference alone, color stature, manner of speaking? who knows who cares? everyone and no one, of course we know now, or knew then when we were talking or thinking about it, god forbid even excited by salt whisperings of great sea change.

They, the ones careful on these lands they knew, on whose fields they cared and damn! if the river they inherited was black coal tar fire oil, so it must be! They would make use of it somehow. As they must. As they knew and know still. Just as they always knew clear as day of the unclean business of race in this land so-called united. yet faced state after state more divisive. For free labor is hard to accept and then not. The matter of property defined and labor lost, was to the North American settlers a topic on fire more and more. Hot and then hotter than hot! The dark-skinned among them knew hot when it was Faux Froid. Understood segregation as it was, truly, La Verite so unnatural. Only by habit, by habit -- made natural by habit. And furthermore understood how survivors will first and foremost survive! however violently. however against any internal morality or code of ethics. Eat! Survive! Grasp! then toward peace if they must.

Such was how it was, and became clearer, but not to they who knew and were under it, who could not have stood nearer the heat of the matter. Well they told Miss Jane Smith, in all her swanesque accoutrements! They told her to her face, for her benefit. The colored women told her her husband's cost-cutting measures was a scandalous if not treacherous DL operation, poisoned wells and waterways, fouled the potable essence and life-giving source! No joke!

Miss Smith however laughed, uncomfortably so. She found these confronteurs to be irreverent, highly! lacking etiquette and poise! She tried best she could but could not shut her ears to their noise! Overtook her it did, day by day, and overrun her it would, in no time. Her entire sense of herself to her horror she found flushed down those very network of siphoned PV pipedream become nightmare untold and unheard, hushed hushed by the whole town of major minority. By decision. Not so much with derision or intention to coverup or forget. Rather driven by a great and wide sea of experience in the past century since the trade of men and women and children to slavery down deep south and still fresh as the sun in the sky and dew on the grasses the fields; experience of those who survived the telling to the supremekeepers (in form across the land in those days) by minority mouths of deeds! terrible deeds! done against their own pale kind, by their kind. By their kind, to their kind! One in a kind scandal! ... Those who survived this particular sort of telling  or reporting of yesterday, survived simply in some cases by not telling.

So the rivulets grew from particles from beads to small streams from slipstreams, then converged, nuclear dilution and pollution and Miss Smith herself in some compromised liquidation. All went by so fast! Down a drain, what a rush. Eddys out then called back to the ruined whole of the whole. What a rush to the fuckin' face with a nike swoosh, on forehead (and the lace), demonstrably positioned (poorly placed)! Like authority or ego outgrowing itself -- irrevocably exposed, and so out of place. In error of ways. Not making sense. so all sense falls away...  no capitals no grammar no fuckin' care neither eh ha! whadda do whaddada dada dada da- ah!?! without any closure you they it have found or been given recourse to from above below...the....your their they're hers his very end. In finite. Infinity.

 La Verite? The Truth, formerly of the  aka mia missing? in what country Nobody knew but would not yet tell for the telling. Everybody understood her suddenly, La Verite! Cause all in all what was happening was that obvious moment, that mindful moment no one could ignore, not only due to trauma but adrenaline pumping excitement; not only adrenaline excited moments neither but also mundane moments exactly in between! mathematically come correct! algorhythmically snapped out of the hips! Executed through ninety one eighty three sixty and or more or less kind of flips of the flexible at heart.... for it was they who stood there in no poor shape at the end. The same, they say. Who stood so consciously! So energetically (in collaboration duly noted. What with chills of Faux Froid passed through and delivered)... at the just as sudden start.

The spirits. in the spaces between and apart and far from, are yet to be hemmed in, anyway. The spirits swayed in  unison with and out of synch then. Consonance and dissonance together holding hands. Not necessarily about coming together by choice for some-all. Forces above and beyond human comprehension, of all-some. And more out of synch are the spirits, with the reeds, the grasses, the grains, Ceres. With the some-all. Against the pressure to force a synch came upon the fooled. Then, once that was forgotten....the spirits, well, they swayed in the fields. Such was the telling. The telling by the told. As the untelling, by the untold... like tommorrow, as was yesterday is today.