I always see people in electronic wheelchairs moving around Panorama City; necks craned over the top like the dead albatross, eyes constantly towards a better place, constantly praying.
Stay here long enough and you physically can't escape. Your arms and legs fall asleep, because it feels better than fear, refusing to move in a state of catatonic shock.
How many wheel chair paraplegics do you see on a regular basis within five blocks of where you live? I've counted three so far. There is something about this place.
I found out that there have been murders in the apartment complex. I don't know if the rumors are true, but would not be surprised and amm considering the idea.
I found out cars get stolen, broken into, and smashed on my street fairly often.
The story of my car is this: A drunk driver rams a woman's car at full speed- no brakes- in front of a church in session. Her car rams into mine and eliminates my trunk, making it easier for me to parallel park.
Her car has little damage- a dent, a busted taillight. The only physics I can imagine are as follows. Her car has better armor than mine, which I found had foam in the bumper. He was going so fast that he did not smash her car, but pushed it across the street and smashed into mine.
Later, before the pigs arrived, the drunkard's wife, like some loser Bonnie and Clyde, comes with her truck to pull him out of the mess and escape. The cops showed up and arrested both of them.
I'm currently tutoring kids part-time for 9 dollars an hour. The area I work in is surrounded by sushi bars, jamba juices, and starbucks. The kids I tutor wear Abercrombie, Hurley, and Famous Stars and Stripes. The rich get richer. The educated get more education. We'd love to change a child's life, if the price is right.
I live in a place where you will get your detergent stolen if you leave it out. I couldn't afford to tutor myself, if I needed it. I haven't paid my car in 4 months. And I make trash cans out of safeway bags.
I am a walking contradiction.
ART: created by the rich, for the rich.
FARMING: unthanked, hereditary.
Specialization allowed mankind to grow, to civilize.
When is the last time you paid $8,000 for a conceptualized cob of corn?
Corn goes in; corn goes out.
College costs money. Music costs money. Art costs money.
(No, man, art is free, man.)
The earth is free, but so is suffering.
They pave the streets with it. They're leavin' boxes of it on your doorstep.
They're eatin it for Thanksgiving and wrappin it up for Christmas.
Survival is an artform.
The less surviving you do, the more time you have for essentially meaningless, abstract, and unlasting frivolities. More thought, love, time, and skill could be put into the world's most transcendent tomato and some blind, prune pit, petrified motherfucker would still be squeezin it like a saggy titty.
Oops, dropped it.
You're too close to the painting, sir.
If art is suffering, then I'm fucking Michaelangelo. Welcome to my gallery.
I'll die on this farm, in this apartment, in this ghetto, in this gutter.
Play my eulogy on a harp and paint my corpse in gold.
I guess you could say I'm a critic, yeah.
Art is the masturbation of the modern man.
Mankind is like the praying cyborg priests welded to their wheelchairs, a narcissus lookin in the pool with keen eyes and shriveled limbs, a beautiful mind in a useless, incontinent body.
Let me out.