matt says: people tryin tah crop me

reintroduction

Matthew lives in the present. Not that he’s the carpe diem sort — it’s more that he clings to the present like it’s a bit of flotsam in the sea of an ephemeral past and unknowable future.

He doesn’t plan ahead or look back. He lives moment to moment.

Matthew takes these moments and crystallizes them. Captures them before they float away, pins them down with words. Solidifies these moments and carries them with him.

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    okay
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matt says: peter; what's happening?

epilogue

Life quickly devolves into bland beige paste. Matthew stirs the milk to hasten the process. His brain is soggy, saturated by painkilling chemicals. He spoons a mouthful of slurry and swallows without chewing. Next week: solid foods.

But his dreams are cautionary films. Food is chewed, mashed into gaping gum sockets. Embedded in biology that heals around it. Spoiled. Thobbing pain. The jawbone splinters under the pressure of swelling pus. Matthew's face rots. Melts. Dead skin slides away in swaths, dripping and beige.

Matthew stares into the bowl of cereal.

"How is it?" asks Counterpoint.

"Gmh," says Matthew, with the spoon in his mouth.

  • Current Music
    harvey danger ... wine women and song
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matt says: peter; what's happening?

wom wom wom

Teeth are little things sticking out of the inside of your face. Calcified extrusions used to smash food so you can swallow it for digestion. Inside each tooth is a set of nerves that intertwine with those of crucial head parts like your brain and eyes and sinuses. Matthew had four wisdom teeth which grew in straight (an unusual occurrence, he was told) and then promptly broke. Shattered into jagged rocks at the corners of his jaw, each with a set of nerves that ceaselessly broadcast throbbing pain. Then, they were removed from his head.

Counterpoint says that toothaches are why he doesn't believe in God. "Pain, in general, makes sense. But with toothaches, the pain is so out of proportion to the problem." He nudges Matthew with his foot. "Don't you think it's a little silly?"

Matthew is on the floor. His body is pinned to the floor by an amount of hydrocodone. He drools blood, but in the good way.

"I think an intelligent designer could have sorted that out a little better," Counterpoint says.

Matthew is not interested. He smiles a gauzy smile over a sea of beige carpet.

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  • Current Music
    paul rothman ... scoobidoo love
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matt says: people tryin tah crop me

you and yours

Oh boy! 2009 was a big year for Lish and Matt! As of this summer they are homeowners and now share a roof, a bed, and a mortgage. "Are those wedding bells I hear?" No, as of yet that is not what you hear.

This year, Matthew received a promotion. His new title: "Senior Contact Center Specialist." While we're not exactly sure what that title means, we do know that it signifies the complete demise of Matthew's dreams! Goodbye, creative aspirations! Hello, "second-to-bottom rung of the corporate ladder"! What's that? Matthew's unwillingness to remove himself from the joy-smothering office environment does not necessarily mean he will never achieve even the simplest of his life goals? Tell that to his "overwhelming sense of dread"!

This year, Alicia won an Emmy! ..."Not!" Her coworkers did, but she didn't. Better luck in 2010, Lish! That's if your company even survives into the new year! Would all the people who have their original shoulders please raise their hand? "Not so fast, Lish!" (Like you could raise your hand anyway!) Due to the ravages of rheumatoid arthritis, Lish is having her shoulder replaced and will be spending the holidays under heavy sedation. Yep, she's one of the "lucky ones"!

Finally, there has been an addition to the family: Bananacat (aka Banana, Nana, Nanners), a domestic shorthair kitten foundling! She has adjusted quickly to her new home, and will be having her uterus removed shortly.

Best wishes for the holidays and may you be happy and healthy in the coming year!

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  • Current Music
    everclear ... hating you for christmas
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matt says: people tryin tah crop me

upwardly mobile

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Matthew inhales an amount of crisp autumn air -- all damp, rotting leaves that plaster themselves across the surface area of his brain. When he shakes them off, he wakes himself for the first time in months. He is dazed, gasping. He moons at the walls of his cubicle, which suddenly seem less felty and are taller and father apart from one another. There is a clock, it reads nine-fifteen. His desk is now wooden and movable. There is a chair in front of his desk for entertaining visitors. Counterpoint is sitting there.

"Is this an office? Do I have an office?" says Matthew.

"You're back!" Counterpoint says. "It's been a while. Here, I have some papers for you to sign."

Matthew looks at the papers, struggles to make sense of their arrangements of words. "Things have changed," he says.

"Um, yes. You have this office, you're a homeowner, you have a cat... a mortgage, a gym membership."

The papers are on the floor. Matthew has his head in his hands. He mutters into his palms. He takes his jacket of the hook on his door -- his door -- which he pulls shut as he leaves.

Counterpoint starts and Matt says, "Early lunch" just before the door clicks closed.

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    deerhoof ... the perfect me
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matt says: people tryin tah crop me

homeowner speaking

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"But Master," says Counterpoint, looking up from the open torso of the fallen improvateur, "How then should I create? If a creation is to be judged by its longevity, how can I make something that will be long-lasting?"

Pseudonym laughs. "Concern yourself not with longevity. Truly, nothing matters but for the eternal." With his sleeve, he wipes the blood from his lips and smears it across his cheek. "And nothing is eternal and nothing matters! It is best to create that which will make you happy and destroy that which does not."

"I don't understand! Happiness," says Counterpoint, "is the least permanent thing of all!"

"And that is why everything must be destroyed."

matt says: peter; what's happening?

re: blood

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"If man is truly made in God's image, then our feature of greatest resemblance is undoubtedly our desire to create." Bickford smiles warmly, though it shows not beneath his paper mask. "We are the only species in His creation that expresses itself creatively, though our 'creations' pale in comparison to His. Through creativity we commune with our incomprehensible Father, and through improvisation -- with its immediacy, its purity -- we express our divinity at its least clouded by the human mind."

"If creativity is reproduction," Pseudonym responds, "then improvisation is masturbation: resulting in naught but fleeting joy and lasting emptiness. You will find nothing of ultimate value there."

  • Current Music
    eazy-e ... gimme dat nut
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matt says: bah-WOO! that's a whale noise

i don't read the bible, i don't trust disciples

"One of the lights is out," Matthew remarks. "I should tap it."

On the roof, Matthew taps the burnt-out bulb, and it is burnt-out, and the tapping does not rouse it. The fat little Christmas light should be blue, but it looks black when it is out. He stands on the roof, his hands at his hips, looking at that dead bulb and letting the wind's teeth rip into him.

"I should get a replacement," he comments, standing at the edge of the roof, toes over the edge. "I'll just hop down and go get one."

"No," I say, and drag him back inside through his bedroom window. He almost had me that time, though.

  • Current Music
    gogol bordello ... supertheory of supereverything
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