alistairmather

so, still arguing with myself over the necessity and language of the seventh installment of The Adventures of Hunter Cartwright. i'll figure it out eventually and post it here for all you readers of the bizarre.... and if you haven't read anything of the Adventures of Hunter Cartwright please see my past journal entries to witness the madness your life has been lacking.

in the meanwhile, i present to you what happens when you OD on vicodine and then go out for coffee in downtown Buffalo and write. oddly enough, this is a philosophy i subscribe to when in full possesion of my faculties also. cities are wonderful, brilliant, terrifying, LIVING things. go listen to what yours has to say.

City Life

Bass pounding.
Motion.
Constant white noise of too many conversations fighting for dominance in too small an area.
Images,
quick blurs,
occasional pauses framing eternally caught moments.
Blur.
Face, soft and tan turning to listen to its neighbor.
Movement,
color,
A car, blue and sleek caught in the headlights of a turning vehicle at the intersection.
Rising noise,
people moving,
A girl, hand raised to brush hair out of her face.
This is how my city speaks:
brief moments of peace framed forever against a constant violent background.
Staccato rythm continues.
Break it down and it becomes thrumming engines,
pounding foot steps,
raised voices.
All caught in a beat that is the cities heart, pumping its lifeblood of people through its roads and arteries.
They stop for food,
for money,
for work.
Nodal points that move the cities life and nourishment:
cash and energy and people.
So many people.
Like blood cells carrying the requirements of the city through a circulatory system no less complicated then our own.
People:
the lifeblood of an entity we do not recognize.
Parasites on the gods we created.