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Written Summer of 2001
In the summer of 2001, Jaygaret propelled themselves from Florida to California in their high speed transport module. Sit forward and let a fusion of their impressions ferment as you masticate an original wonderland.
"One Mississippi." As you read those words you ate a second of your conscious slice of time in History. You might have thought of a time when you were too young to afford a watch, when you had to do funny things like say, "two Mississippi," to keep track of how long you had been alive. But what if you lost track of time? What if right after you said "three Mississippi," a time mason built a wall between you and your ability to say the word for "Mississippi?" Without time how would you organize your thoughts?
When you recall the events of your conscious slice of time, it's almost impossible to link the thoughts together without using time. What is the independent variable? What would go on the x-axis in a graph? Intimate thrills would be linked to chocolaty desserts. High school graduations might mingle with tear soaked pillows. Without time there is nothing to block happiness: a clear, calm mind. Serotonin levels would peak out from behind the clouds. The happiness and non-traditional associations between memories would breath violently new ideas. You would scream so loud that after the time wall crumbled from the shockwaves the rest of the real world would hear you say, "Infinity Mississippi." JAY
We stopped in Houston to refuel our high speed transport module. I stumbled from the car into a five star horror film. The air pouring into my orifices from this alien planet was drenched with such a thick sea of smog that I couldn't part it with a Moses. The other people's high speed transport modules were dripping oily doo doo on the roads, which reminded me of punk rock teens throwing half burned cigarettes on the ground as if they caused cancer. In that oily doo doo I thought I saw a glimmer of hope for "Pouston." I was wrong though. It was just a reflected sunray bending and twisting as it made its way through the different densities of the hot, gas filled air. JAY
Since the fate of the world is predestined, don't be impressed that I'm writing to you. Kinda how all great civilizations get their hookups from some life giving body of water, so is my creative passion of the moment inspired by you, California. Your presence brings truth to a situation. Your raw beauty shouts at the makeup queen's perfection. "Sup now?" it says. It is night now. At the end of the hall, I see a lovely white light reflecting off your skin, and I barely notice a popular girl with a deep tan in the shadows. I charge down the hall and dive lips first into your state of being, California. BAM! Massage oils mingle with your abundant vegetation, and before you can think about it you instinctively infer that it is morning from the sunlight glistening in your french toast. Light leaves the sun going 300 million meters per second. About 7 minutes later it meanders through your window, bounces off the maple syrup on your toast, and hits you right in the eye (This sentence was inspired by Anne Rice). Your eye tells your brain and your brain doesn't bother to tell you as this is a common occurance. As I drive across your border I surrender to you. Sometimes we kiss. Sometimes we are separated by 2000 miles. Other times we send soundwaves into eachoter's ears through telephones that generate funny thoughts which make us laugh. Artistic passion and love consume people's thoughts, but football and weather dominate their talk. We breath in and out and the world spins around one more time JAY
I am half way to the finish line, and I imagine I am a spherical molecule of deoderant propelled through the nozzle of an aeresol can. I'm running in the 2nd annual Pulson Heights marathon on a dry July day. Since my first marathon last year, I've developed many strategies to trick myself into believing that I am just along for the ride. In most of my favorite shams, I envision myself as a symmetrical blob, weighing less than my forward flowing surroundings. I pretend I am a piece of pollen floating in the breeze or an air bubble cruising downstream in the middle of a river. Actually, though, I am a loggish turd. You know how the saying goes: "You can't polish a turd." JAY
I had planned a lackadaisical bicycle ride to the local burrito stand. I had my baseball cards in my spokes and my ribbons on my handle bars. Nothing could stop me. That's what I thought before I was accosted by 3 Swedish girls who had just been kicked off a bus. They were lost and their high caliper Exchange Daddy wasn't willing to come pick them up. I brought them home in exchange for three bars of chocolate and a story. Even though the story is long and contains a rich and valuable history of the girls' lives, I will just tell the climax to save you the skimming: their dad was high up in the Iranian government around 1980'ish. They were forced to flee during the hostile government overturn. They paid most of their life's savings at the airport to bribe their way onto a plane and didn't see their dad again for 16 years. "I have a similar story about me here in America," I said. "I once cut my finger trying to open up the Terminator II DVD." JAY