L'Ibrarie

(being a poorly thought-out parody of L'Amant, whose execution is woefully inept, but I'm fucking bored at work, so whatcha expect?)

The day began with Superman piloting a last-straw-driven mechanized seat into the Beyond, and ended with me pushing chairs back under tables in the L'Ibrarie.

Actually, the day began not with the rolling of our kryptonited cultural icon's chair into the Hereafter, but with the broadcasted news of said passing. Actually, it began an hour before this broadcasting, with the beeping and the exasperated inward groaning associated most often with the beeping.

The beeping leads to shaving, showering, defecating, not necessarily in that order. It leads also to coffee, blessed burbling and hissing, steam and cream, the miserable residue of yesterday's batch cast dolefully in the trash, the guilty "I really should put that in the composter" which I ignore each morn, the fresh renewed filter, the bitter scented bite of the as-yet-unmoistened grounds. The hiss, the draining, the vapor, the pour. The coffee with the paper and the suspense of how much cleavage Jennifer Desmarais will today display.

My dreams they seethe, yet Reeves achieves. The total, the end of desire, the summation, the rebeginning. Adulthood is knowing that you perhaps wish to die, or to be alone, and one can manage neither. The desire to die and the need to be alone cannot possibly be satiated without failure. So to be is to fail, to stop being is impossible, to stop wanting to be or stop wanting not to be is well, you know, like, SO

I met the Lover in Hunt Valley Mall. At McDonald's of all places. She was in the red paysan uniform of the wage-slave, exploited by the management, by the customers, by the corporation, by its owners, by the franchisee, by her family. I wore the faux dress blue of the petit bourgeois boss, accessorized by a bushy blond mullet and fang mustache. I dressed her buns in special sauce, and as she acceeded to the plateau of jouissance a half-dozen times, I pledged to continue colonizing her for a lifetime, and she acquiesced, accepting my oppressive honky maleness into her dusky third-world femininity with alacrity bordering on the burlesque.

In those days, my fingers smelled of reconstituted dried onions and my shoes were slick with the slop we sold to Noxel; french fry chicken nugget fish filet vat grease, grill scrapings, rotten meat and decayed veg, slushed into giant grey waste barrels and rolled out the back. Thence are made cosmetics ladies, what a tasty kiss results from that process indeed, paint your face and dance!

Chris Reeves trapped in a giant wheelchair-shaped mirror, rotating through the solar system. Somewhere out there he's freed by Jalel, who left us weeks before, some brand o' other marks the spot. When will Lex have left us? Hack, man, those genes is no good, Levi's or no.

L'Ibrarie contains it all, the dreary redundancies, the plaints, the summits of sorrowfully quaint derivatives. I round them up each eve, and send the seekers to seek themselves amongst the sagging mildewed stacks, each wants something they don't really want, but need to find, their desires from some external Thou Shalt, the results more of the same--still banished from Eden, L'Ibrarie we be.