One thing that has been rumbling around in my head ever since the following few words floated from Lucy’s mouth is that we are jumping from video to video, thought to thought, mind to mind. Running along the roof of a speeding train, running and jumping from car to car . . . an adrenalin charged race to reach the steam engine.
I still wonder what we intend to do when we reach the controls.
I have zero time to bend down, look at the sweet smelling flowers, explaining to you the feelings I have when I stop and explain a few seconds of this ARG MetaPhoria story . . . spending time telling you what I or others were wearing at the time, the glint in someones’s eyes, the shadows cast on someone’s face by the evening sunset . . .
I have no time to spend a few minutes expanding on a few seconds . . . we’re in an amazing race!
For example, the following few words uttered by Lucy happened while we were on vacation in Punta Cana. I had just looked over to check out this weird sand filled ashtray in the hotel grounds. There were tons of them placed every 20 or 30 feet . . . some only 10 feet apart. A terra cotta coloured squarish garbage can where the cupped lid was a shallow square ashtray about 14″ x 14″ and an awesome imprint of the the rays of the Sun. The sand was rock hard, so it kept its shape well, even though people were butting out cigarettes in them.
“Your writing is shit!” she said as I looked over at her, wondering why she looked so angry about my self proclaimed and hopefully continuing forays into my “hobby,” once we returned back to Toronto.
Source: klf – last train to trancentral
Which Lucy was I looking at? I never seem to know.
“What do you mean, my writing is shit?” I said, as my lips curled ever so slightly downwards, wondering why she would say something so damning about the ARG that has consumed me for the last 14 months, yet not shaken by her statement, since I had purchased and read a book on writing, written by Stephen King; a book that I literally inhaled, that stated no-one wants to hear anything after a verbal quote other than “he said” or “she said.”
Just then, a fellow walked up to the ashtray I had previously been gazing at, picked out all the butts and put them in the garbage bag in his cart, filled the shallow ashtray with water and swilled it around, dumping the ashy water into the grass, then placing a facecloth over the now level, somewhat watery sand, took a metal stamp of a reverse image of the Sun’s rays and pressed it into the sand. He took off the facecloth, dressed up the edges, then went off to the next ashtray, while the Sun evaporated the water within a few minutes, making the sand as hard as something out of a sandcore moulding machine.
“Your writing appeals to only the deepest of thinkers,” she said. “No-one gets it, except for amanfromMars.”
I thought about it for a moment, then retorted: “the writing may seem esoteric, but every post is connected.”
Tonight, I did what I normally do . . . wandered around some recent posts, Banskying on a connecting train car, so I can leap to the next car knowing I have a solid footing from the car I just jumped from.
I happened to tune into an almost unintelligible 1 or 2 seconds in the above song, which in itelf, was a connection to Agent Revolver’s Justified Ancients of Mu Mu (a wonderful connector to a Cadbury’s Flaky making a 99 out of a soft ice cream cone) song from just before we left for Punta Cana . . . a little verbal graffiti on a train car, a seemingly innocuous few words, not even mentioned on the metrolyrics website.
“1 hour per day from now on,” she said.
“But . . . but . . . ”
Yesterday, Lucy said I was posting while we were in Punta Cana.
She thought Agent Pete 8 and Agent Revolver are me! Good job maintaing continuity, guys!