Thursday, March 1, 2007

Farewell To Night Vision

This is a tiny snapshot in a larger story. If you like the style, or have any suggestions/knowledge of amnesia, or just have anything to say in general-post it please!
thanks, enjoy.


Thin lines of rusty brown gleamed ugly smiles over the white half moons of my fingernails. Mom would be disgusted if she saw. At least, that's what moms do, that's what my mom would say, wouldn't she? Of course, of course, magazines, they never lie. Think what she'd say about this matted hair looking more like a racoon caught in a papermill, these rigamortized jeans reeking of piss and Old English. Giggles rise in my throat at the image of a Donna Reid with my nose, and bifocals-screaming at me to "straighten up". The other day I realized with amazement that some time I had sex once-I read in Hustler about hymens, and so I checked-I don't have one. I wonder if I had an orgasm...or if I cried myself to sleep, like the women on TV because I couldn't have one?
I want a fucking cigarette. I want it so bad I am scouring the parking lot for change...no luck so far, the winos are too quick for me. Though I'm not sure what my name is, or why I can't remember having one, it doesn't seem to be an impediment around here.
In fact, if you ask the local oinks, my name is "move along", or "no sleeping here". Every once in a while they change it up to "hand over the smack", but it's been awhile since I had any to hand over...
Anyway, here I am. No one knows me-and that includes me. Sure, it doesn't make any sense-but somehow that doesn't stop the clock, so "sense" must be pretty difficult to make in this vile gray meat locker-for as far as I can see, thats' what this place looks like. It varies only by graffitti, trash and neon-the frantic reds, blues and greens of capitalism washing eerily over it own pimpled underbelly, screaming for cash-just like the rest of us. Poor saps. Swarming the streets, just another mess of vipers on the head of Medusa and the heels of humankind. The others are jealous...they tell me amnesia is like cold beer, like sex with underwear models, like a bag of shit that never runs low...they want to cut the top off of my head, and pilfer "it". If they thought they could, they would. Though they keep telling me how smart I am-smart. So smart I can't remember my own name-but I know things, so many other things, and have no clue how I came to learn them. Funny how motivation is just a word when you're anonymous-no one expects much when they can't pin you down with the anvil of identity. Someday mine might fall on my head. It might. But I doubt it.
The crud and crust and stench of overhumanitized alleys and tenaments eats me, a close cousin to cancer. I wonder who will get my bones-maybe the winos will make a house of them-at least that way, I'd be good for something.
Looking in windows at my reflection, it smacks of bad movies to wonder WHO I am...but that is how it stands. I play it how it lies, in a rancid alley of dead cats and rotting sandwhich rinds, in a colorless wasteland that used to be-me?
Help me-I need something very small. I need to know my name. Help me.
If you don't, soon I won't care enough to find out. But if I was someone of note-there might be something in it for you. Something you wouldn't have to languish under garish neon for. Oh well. All I really know is, I used to be a person. Somehow, I feel certain of it.

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Posted by Green Scribe at 2:25 PM