Liquidation Sale' the big sign read in
red letters. I was in some old furniture factory, unnamed, brandless
place. His mom was there, but she took off somewhere and he was now
alone, wandering through the fields of old furniture. The rooms were
cold and dead as concrete. 'Liquidation' signs held suspended from
the walls above. The lights grew dimmer. The funiture grew older,
more dusty, and more wondering would take place. His mom would find
him later, after the historical triggering had gotten enough time to
sink in. City: Courtney? 1998? Possibly 1999. Why were we even here?
Why did we go to so many swimming pools that reeked of chlorine? We
went to this one called the Austrian Chalet, and it used way too much
chlorine. So much that his eyes stung a faded white shade after a
$2.00 swim in the facility. There were some artistic murals of sea
monsters on the wall, done in colored, chipped tiling. The hot tub
and sauna were pretty good. He always got so hungry after a swim.
Luckily, this was during the times of gradeschool, pokemon,
warhammer, nice friends, and playstation; before the public exposure
via low-paying fake jobs became annoying like mosquitoes on steroids.
The young, pliable minds of apprehensive placeholder humans (though
some were likely genuine) were far less obtuse than the overblown
cancer-rage of old bastards who'd been so brainwashed into oblivion
that not even a head transplant could save them from the bottomless
waste bins of white supremacy.
Exposure to their toxic attitudes in
later life would prove to be mentally acidic, especially the bloated
fake physics man who stuffed beer cans up chickens at bbq's and
waddled around on nuke day throwing bonfires for parasites. It even
went so far as to blast dissonance from a 'pool heater' (sand filter)
placed strategically close enough to the home to cause maximum
annoyance. The purpose of this machine was to trigger bunker memories
of manual air filters whose hand crank mechanism would have produced
a similar racket. Dungeon master's perfect daughter, family, and
other hapless extras took part in the charade, but all were seemingly
blind to the pathetic desperation of the whole exercise. Fried
chicken's lowest point might have been madly hobbling forward in an
attempt to push one down the stairs, only to have his wildly ugly
face punched in. But not to be forgotten was the angrily whispering,
loudly door and cupboard slamming rage reaction of witnessing a
gravity of work be reduced to redundancy, lies, and tricks. Oddly,
both incidents resulted in the completion of manual labor projects.
In the first case, a stairwell railing had been completed (it
resembeled prison bars), and on the second, it loudly, obstinately
taped together a cover over an open cubby-hole under the stairwell in
a weak attempt to block the (simulated battlefield) smell of putrid
sewage seeping through the loose, rusted metal cover into the exact
area as one's living space.
Luckily, those days were over, but the
junk still lingered in the psyche: chemical imprints of frustration,
desperation, and failure clinging to neural micro-tubules of patterns
rapidly changing to override their influence. One often noted how old
patterns had to be remembered before being overwritten and modified
for the benefit of clear consciousness. It was a welcome change, and
now new bridges were being formed. It was now funny to remember the
stale shaw coffee and awkward peripheral crypto-blacks planted in the
workplace to report, no matter how artificial and contrived,
predispositions to racial marginalization. Militant shill operations
employing zion's scopolomine-induced drones and pseudo-gay fascist
techniques had been applied much more freshly to countersignal
feminism, but this had little lasting impact, and would soon be
relegated to the dustbins of memory.