Monday, January 31, 2011

Wrong directions: the commodified, the humanized, the severed thing.

“It takes a long time, but god dies too, but not before he sticks it to you.” I thought as I looked down at my deformed testicles hanging limply next to the new stab wound covering much of my lower body. I raged last night, bar hopping, cow hopping, girl flopping, trying to forget my existence, as it is so easy to do these days.

Earlier that day I walked down the street, which is next to my house, which is desolate, and a car followed me. A blue car, with a woman dressed up in a black dress and a man in a light blue dress-shirt, crept behind me. In that moment I jumped to the future in my mind, which is where things are supposed to matter, and I followed the three of us down the street, in the car, to a motel, room 306, where we would meet a group of men and play chess before having an orgy. I followed us there in my mind, but the man, in the car, in reality, stuck his head out and said “Do you know how to get to Robsham?” And to this I replied with directions, carefully describing the route he was to take, carefully guiding a video of the future in his mind. And as I stood there, making gestures with my hands to get my point across, I realized I was the direction-giver. That’s a lie. I didn’t realize it then, but rather directly after I gave the directions and their car crept off, and I was left with the pitter patter of my footsteps. I was the direction-giver and nothing more or less. The man took all spheres of my person, except for my internal map, as my hands danced in the air, and the couple listened intently, eagerly. No ‘Hello’ or ‘Goodbye’ is meant for a man such as I, at least not in that moment, when I should stand giving directions, stripped of my name (which means nothing), history, life, and personality. And I wonder, now, if man has always commodified—nay, demystified— himself.

So, as I lay on the ground now, writing this at the end of that street, by my house, my domicile, and I ponder the second, screeching car that came, and the angry man, with wrong directions from some other guy, I wonder why he asked my name. I wonder why he took his time approaching, absorbing my fear before plunging his knife into me. Perhaps the commodified life is better, if for no other reason than the apathy associated with the object, and consequently, the objectified. The first man used me and then tossed me to the side. The second man, with wrong directions, looked into my eyes and recognized a human, and sought to conquer that human.

I don’t wish to give you, reader, my name, because I wish to escape from humanized sentiment, and avoid commodified apathy. Perhaps this is why I lay still, dying, more, or less than human.

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