THE lifeLESS LIVED

MOMENTS IN LUST

photos and narrative: anonymous.

The tires bleated like a stuck goat as Ethyl-vapors ignited our engine up the 101N toward Los Angeles. It was early September and the short journey blurred in a haze of faded advertisement. Eat Here, a finger pointed; immediately we turned, in favor of the unknown oasis. We stopped tossing the empties into suspension with the dust. Ahead of us triple sixes curled into the promise of a hard fought night. We bought the ticket and by damned we would take the ride.

We spent the 2-hours after our arrival, at the Andaz hotel, tattooing tire-treads up and down the busy streets of Sunset boulevard. The rush of speed made us feel wild. Cravings of pocket-sized pandemonium kept us going. We chased phantoms out into Los Angeles somewhere. Where dreams made are nothing but a humans scorn. Where everyone says, look at me. Instead its more like Look the part, real is dead, these were the only words that I could muster up in lieu of our societies blaring degeneration.

The rooftop pool of our hotel glared with the ungodliness of the sun. Sweat beaded my forehead as I looked over the water. The glass-like surface rippled in an uneasy calmness that begged guests to look into the abyss. Unable to bear their reflection many make the only sane choice and destroy it by jumping in. We had no time and I no compulsion to join the ranks of the sane. Our minds drifted in anticipation of the road and we watched as the sun struggled against the monochrome of night.

Of course it is not safe to travel into the unknown without preparation. I called for El Chapo; the Mejicano.. He had the greased look and rugged style of a border beggar. The boys that knife tourists and each other for the sheer sport of it. This made his career as a big shot in the pharmaceutical industry all the more impressive. He was a man that could get things done by making everyone feel like god, even if it was only for 20 min. A man to be trusted for sure and he did deliver but the details were always unclear.

Batista met us at the venue with some dark swill in a large cup. Being the leader of the expedition I drank most of the contents. There was no burn from the liquor but there was an overwhelming bitterness that left my tongue dry as pumice stone. We entered with little recollection of who we were, or how we even got there, and without giving life anymore thought we setoff into the miasma of Los Angeles. The buzz of crawling things and of people strung out on losses at the lottery reaches fever pitch as they swarm under the red neon. Lives en masse looking to find life amongst the lifeless. But why? I (we) join them.

The youth writhe in a mass of bobbing heads like one giant hydra. Faces in tribal garb that look for their likeness so that they may escape the organism. Faces shouting and dancing saying, look at me, and I am here. All efforts seem pointless but still they shout. They shout for the dream that was promised them. And I shout with them. This remains the central downfall of any generation, they all want to change to face of society but they all back down from the real responsibility of carrying a culture on their back

Lost in the unknown and the organic chirring of the mass, some turn away. They turn away because they recognize that they cannot rise above the heads that bob in search of the same dream. One that was packaged and sold. The same dream only outfitted with different tribal smocks.

May you live in interesting times, says a Chinese curse and we do. One where what you say has taken the place of what you do. Our generation is all talk. Words define dreams and movements but looking out of my 1960s glasses into the mass I can see that all of the characters are accounted for. There was a time when we all believed we could make a difference and become something in this pulsing landscape of steel and flesh carcasses. Nave or Cynical, there can be no rebels, all ways of life have been sold.

I peered into the redness that rose from the valley, a hellfire alive as the cherry of my cigarette, consuming the wonders of San Miguel Arcngel and the grin of the businessman as his porcelain whore takes a razor blade to the fine line between normal and insane. I sat completely frozen as the flames kept burning out from the City of Angels. That night El Chapo had an unpleasant encounter, fist flew and bodies were dropped, luckily he walked away from the whole thing unscathed. All he remembers is returning to the hotel just before dawn with an ex-lover of his, and pack of EXTENZE.

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