plastic box for wetware

Charting a course through the stratosphere, we are fifty parsecs above land, no activity port, we are cleared for destination.  A man lands his foot to the pavement, his shoelace is untied.  A piece of gum sticks to his tread and now he is pissing out dark, yellow vitamins in the alley of some long-forgotten and abandoned landscape, where the sun is dripping brightly, the green is somewhat burned around the edges, and the ribbons fly through the air.  We’re landing, sir, comes a voice from within.

“Yes, of course, let me make myself more presentable,” says you, the person that this is about.

“Make yourself comfortable,” comes a commanding voice from deep in the cockpit.  You are still dreaming of dogs chasing cats through the clouds.  “Will it rain today?” you ask, and no one replies, because no one knows.

You do.  This is your life.  You are in control.  You want it to rain?  Snap your fingers.

This seems like so much, but it really is only just a little thing.  You can’t bother yourself with worrying about the rain, you’ve got other fish to fry.  Big, hefty fish, big, hefty fish flesh and fire.

“Where am I headed?” you ask.  You don’t ask this, you don’t want to ask this because it might seem like you have no idea what is going on, what you are doing, or what your purpose is, and everybody else seems to be just fine.  You keep this question to yourself and leaf through a small notebook you had placed in front of you prior to any of this happening.

“Certainly these notes to myself should clue me in as to what is taking place,” you say, and you leaf through the pages.  They’re blank.

“Well, I guess I was supposed to do that later on,” you remark to yourself sardonically, as you pick up a black pen that you must have intended on using and fulfill the prophecy you had set forth from the get-go.

‘Figure out what is going on,’ you write in the notebook to yourself.  You then scribble above this ‘Step 1’.  “Hopefully there are more steps to come,” you think as you close this notebook, immediately forgotten, because you have arrived.

The colors of the area you are in fade, you find yourself seated at a table with yourself.  “Hi,” you say.

“Hi, I’m you.”

You guys get into a deadly fight.  Blades flashing, is it really the time for you to die?

Not by your own hand, you think.  The tempest is over.  You sip your coffee politely as some more people line into the room and discuss current events.  Certainly you must play your part, then.  You flip through your notes and find your purpose.  How easily to follow simple, one-step rules.  You snap your fingers and thunder strikes.  Now everyone is batshit scared, but you’re not, because you don’t have the foggiest clue what has happened, but you are resolute in your determination to get to the bottom of it.

“When you snapped your fingers, it started raining,” says one of the people.

“I know,” you say.

“Are you a magician?” one of them says.

You think for a minute and tell them “No.”  Crisis averted, you go back to sipping your coffee.  They don’t used to make mornings like this, but you resolve to get to the bottom of that, too.

Your name is Larry.  You live in a country on the planet and are given to flights of fancy.  You drink rum with juice at times.  You are also forgetful.