So "Don't Let Me Down" comes on and I'm already feeling rather introspective. I'm thinking about the moment I learned how to spell the word "earth"; it was on a Speak n' Spell and I was at my cousin's house on my cousin's couch. And my eyes are wandering at the muddied leaves flattened to the ground, and the romance of the park benches... chipped and wooden with rusty fasteners. I'm not wearing any makeup, just a touch of mascara and I feel like one of those hipster girls who are fresh-faced, with chunky glasses - ironically beautiful 'cause they're ugly (...in that conventional sense).
Suddenly I see something bright, a dulled shine within the leaves. The rhythm of my internal beat is muted by an inner monologue. I no longer hear the Beatles, but the rant of my perpetual conflict with humanity and morality. This always happens when I see discarded condoms on the ground. In this case, a discarded condom wrapper. "People fuck in parks," I think. "What kind of a person fucks in a park?" And I ask this with genuine curiosity - in no way is it tinged with judgement... Just confusion and wonder.
There it goes, my mind spinning out of control about sex and what it is and what it means and where it happens. "And we're all just a bunch of Neanderthals. Cave men. Our bodies control our minds. We want it. We need it. We thirst and we hunger. But it's not a bad thing. It's just an eternal truth. Robotics will not numb our desire for orgasm... it will only assist it by artificial means. Perhaps in time, make it last longer... And then maybe I'll understand the fuss more thoroughly.
I just wish we weren't so obsessed and preoccupied by it. No. I don't wish that. And I don't wish that for you. Go ahead... be a rabbit. Meet up at midnight, do it on your lunch break. Kiss and peck and say goodbye, until you punch in and punch out and can do it all again. Meaningful or meaningless. At the end of it all, I should worry only about me. Worrying about the sex-obsessions and hormones of others is not my desire, my passion, nor is it my duty or calling. My calling is my work and my work just happens to be associated with the Idiot Box. The silver screen. These devices that use light and sound to convey image, slung together only to form story and teleport these sex-obsessed to other worlds. And when you strip it down to its barest of bones... my purpose is to make people get off by these mirages of light, sound and this 21st century zoetrope formation of story. I'm not referring to pornos... I'm referring simply to the mainstream and the indie. Everything is for the purpose of getting off... not directly in a clitoral or penile way, but simply to feel good. No - to feel something."
As I come to the end of this rant inside my head, I near closer to the condom rapper... And naturally I look down at it to check the brand, for obsessive compulsive curious purposes... And when I do I see that it says "Twinnings."
Well look at that. I lost my shit over the wrapper of an English Breakfast tea-bag.
"Oh," I think to myself.
And within a few moments of dead-air, my mind's on fire again. This time about the irony that I just assumed the wrapper was from a condom, because apparently, like the rest of the world, I am so sex obsessed.
I turn up the volume on my ipod touch, and hope that John and Paul can silence the violence in my mind.
xo Lola
goes jambay.
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