The Hogs of Entropy 0572

eZine lover (@eZine)

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The Hogs of Entropy

 · 5 years ago

  

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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #572 
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8 
    888     888 888      888 888            "<darwin_> 'Can anybody tell 
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8             me what's wrong?'" 
    888     888 888      888 888    " 
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o         by Tasha [4/14/99] 
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8 
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        I was busy being the passenger in a champagne-colored car.  I wasn't 
 in the passenger seat, I was in the back seat, I always am.  We were 
 driving down Michigan Avenue.  You have to take Michigan Avenue to get 
 anywhere useful around here.  I think we were headed home, though, and that 
 place really isn't useful.  It's quite useless, we're always there.  I 
 think I'm using this "we" thing as just me, because I was sort of 
 unattached from all reality at that moment.  I was staring blanky out a 
 window, it was dusty.  No one had written, "WASH ME!" on it, though, which 
 is sad.  Sad that the champagne-colored car isn't good enough to have "WASH 
 ME!" written on it, or maybe it's too good for that.  I haven't decided 
 which is the greater evil of the two.  Too good or too bad.  Either way, 
 you're not getting something or not being grateful for it, in which case 
 you shouldn't have gotten it in the first place. 

        There was a car place.  One of those places that sells cars.  It was 
 across from a Ford plant, so it was selling Ford cars.  There were about 50 
 places selling the same cars in one block.  There must have been real 
 competition for business there.  I couldn't decipher between the cars. 
 They were all shiny and colored, like most cars, if they've been washed. 
 They all had price tags.  I'm sure the price tags were all different, but I 
 didn't have my contacts in so that didn't matter.  it was quite a peaceful 
 scene, me in that car surrounded by all the lonely cars which've yet to be 
 bought.  I think there was music playing.  It probably wasn't too good, I 
 don't remember what it was.  Someone might have been singing along, I don't 
 remember that either, they probably had a good singing voice.  Most people 
 who sing along sing well.  Most. 

        I can't find the proper words to describe this car place and this 
 car and me in the backseat with the person singing along to some kind of 
 music that was playing.  I just can't do it.  I don't even know if they 
 exist, and even if they do, I don't know about their existence.  If I don't 
 know about something's existence, then it doesn't matter, right?  If no one 
 reads this, it doesn't matter that I couldn't find the words.  It might not 
 even matter if people do read it.  I wish I was a painter, or a singer, or 
 something.  I would gladly grab a paintbrush and paint you a picture of 
 this car place and this car and me in the backseat with the person singing 
 along to some kind of music.  I can't, though.  I often try to draw, hoping 
 for some semblance of artistic ability.  It never shows up. 

        Singers are much more useful than my voice, which is usually 
 somewhat monotone.  Singers can sing octaves, you know?  Good ones, at 
 least, like the ones who sing along.  They can convey emotion in their 
 voice, and everyone listens, because it sounds nice.  The existence is 
 known always, by someone. 

        I'm not a singer.  I'm not a painter.  I'm not anything special.  I 
 have text and I have english and a little french, but everyone could if 
 they wanted it.  Not everyone can sing, and being a real good painter 
 usually requires something a tad inherited or born with.  One of those 
 phrases or words or whatever.  It requires _talent_.  My words and text and 
 english and french can be taught.  Taught by an old teacher with a bald 
 spot in K-mart jeans that were 3 sizes too small 3 years ago.  I've never 
 had a teacher like that, but I'm sure one exists. 

        I don't know where this is going.  Probably nowhere.  Nowhere is a 
 good place to go, mainly because it's no specific place, and it can be 
 anything.  It's one of those few things that don't require a specific 
 definition.  "Somewhere" doesn't require a specific definition, either. 
 That takes a little glory off of "nowhere."  Too much glory is a bad thing 
 anyway.  That's not a jackoff of a cliche though, because there are certain 
 things one cannot simply have enough of.  There's always that one song that 
 you can listen to on repeat, because it completely changes your out look on 
 life for about 3 minutes.  Go somewhere. 

        Did you know I cry?  I do.  Not an absurd amount, but enough to 
 substantially qualify me as someone who does, indeed, cry.  That's as far 
 as I'm going tonight.  I cry.  The end. 

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!     HOE #572 - WRITTEN BY: TASHA - 4/14/99 ]