Alright, this is worth a mention if anything is: the homosexual necrophilactic duck has won the professor a nobel prize. Yes, the GAY CORPSE FUCKING DUCK WON A NOBEL. An Ig Nobel, but still – we live in a good, grand world. The man who invented the karaoke machine just won one as well. Be happy and joyful. Also, prolonged exposure to country music makes you kill yourself. “The results of a multiple regression analysis of 49 metropolitan areas show that the greater the airtime devoted to country music, the greater the white suicide rate.” The most quotable quote there? The effect is independent of divorce, southernness, poverty, and gun availability.
My eyes flashed tonight, beacons of frustration railing against my inability to explain why I feel trapped in this city. This small growing place made up almost entirely of people from small towns who think they’re finally somewhere big. There used to be farms where there’s buildings now, there used to be moose walking down some of our main streets. I remember when there used to be something special in watching a moose get hit by a semi-truck and walking away unscathed with merely a twitch of its skin and a withering look at the driver behind the now cracked windshield. Now I wonder if they ever cross a highway unmolested by five tons of metal. I think I’m starting to get tired of moose. Tired of moose and sick of the art of the Haida Gwai. I need to be away from totem poles and bears in the backyard. I’ve been to so many small towns, and none of them have anything to give me. They’re a bar and a store and a restaurant, one of them parasite with a gas station. There’s always an upright video game in the corner with a pre-teen boy permanently attached because there’s nothing else to do. Think paper pull tab lottery tickets, three chances to match cherries or bars. A jackpot meaning a beer on the house.
I wish there was a way to see anything new here. I wish I could see home as being something within 100 miles of here, instead of anywhere elsewhere more established. I’m crying for a sense of history, or somewhere that has some meaning. At least I have a reason now for staying, another dream to add to me. I can listen the colour of eyes that tell me about half a world away, about people who have died that I’ll never meet, about possibilities inherent in living together. It won’t last forever, this chain, the pull will erode even this from pain as the mouse knaws itself out of the glue trap unthinking. Escape is the goal, the idea, the final word which blossomed the sun into creation. Seventh day countries born from gold and brown and the theory behind frozen children. To send me away is always the wish of those closest to me, to let me see the world before I go blind.