Trip Like I Do
Or
Rave Reviews
Whether you know it or not, gentle readers, I've decided to take my craft to the next level. What better way to legitimize my writing than becoming a post-modernist?
I have only one problem: I'm not terribly sure what post-modernism is. What I know of it is vaugely wry, intellectual, and at times inscrutable. The dictionary wasn't much help - postmodernism n : genre of art and literature and especially architecture in reaction against principles and practices of established modernism. I think it also has something to do with drugs.
A few of my acquaintances took hallucinogenic mushrooms the other night. Ahah, I thought. An opportunity! I asked each of them to write something in my notebook. When they were finished, I arranged it into something I thought might pass as art.
Lo, my first venture into experimental post-modern flash fiction!
"Lackasnacka cigarette?" she asked, massaging her temples.
"Yes, by all means," I replied. I was floating out of my body, but in a sort of sexual way, knocking on doors and shaped like a shoe.
"Thank you!" Again, her idle gratitude. My eyes traced the line of her body, lingering at the juncture of her thighs and torso.
"Your. Your crotch," I said.
"I used to make love to fruit," she said, coyly. We kissed without tongue.
FIN
*************************
Also, last night, some of my friends and I attended Vertigo, the annual on-campus rave. It was alright, I suppose. Almost like clubbing. I wore my prom dress - the one with the flexible neon tubing and independent blinking LEDs - a smattering of glowsticks, and lots of glitter. Kay turned himself into a sparkling magnificence, flecked in stick-on diamonds, shimmer gel, glitter lip gloss, and black-light reactive clothing. The two of us cut an exquisite rug on the dance floor. (My god, the lad writhes like a flame. Zounds!) I danced quite furiously with my glowsticks, much to the delight of other partygoers. My dress got compliments. All was well.
If only the DJ's hadn't alternated between techno and hip hop. That's right. HIP HOP. AT A RAVE? I was incensed. I have known since I arrived in Saint Louis that Wash U's student body has deplorable musical taste. But hip-hop at a rave? That is a step too far. Honestly. What is the fucking appeal of a black man (usually) shouting over slipshod, repetative loops and beats?
SHOOT THEM IN THE EYE!
|
"