NO ONE CAN COMPREHEND MY POWER AND CUNNING!!!
Morrissey Sinclair Tumblr
Garron isn’t an anime fan. A lot of the stuff is too overwrought and corny for him. He is simply obsessed with one anime, Pop Hack. It’s about a secret group of anarchists who train a beautiful young girl known as Princess Nandi to become a pop idol and an assassin with the intention of using her influence and killing skills to seize control of the corrupt government.
Wendy French from school looked exactly like Princess Nandi, everything from her gleaming platinum locks to the fey carriage of her delicate limbs. The way she stood leaning against the same tree every day at lunch, sliding her finger across the face of her smart phone, it was obvious that she was waiting to be delivered from the peril of their lumpy oatmeal existence. Garron patiently awaited the day when she would realize that he was the one she needed to fulfill the longing projected from her skyward gaze. He wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Wendy crossed the expanse of grass in front of their school to his spot on the stone planter that crawled across the building’s brick facade to give him a purple envelope. With a tenderly averted gaze, she mumbled, “The pink bus will arrive at 3:27,” a flutter of eye contact, “Be there or be… nowhere.” Garron nodded solemnly. Wendy pivoted abruptly on the toes of her black boots, and strolled away on an invisible winding path. Gazing around furtively to ensure the lack of onlookers, he quickly slid his finger under the envelope’s sealed flap. The rectangle of cream parchment inside announced simply in black calligraphy, “The Spectacle.”
Of course Garron couldn’t sleep a lick that night. He marathoned Pop Hack, a silent part of himself preparing for his role as chosen hero, and finished the last episode at exactly ten minutes until 3:27. Energized by the series’ exciting conclusion, he pulled on his black leather jacket and slipped out of the house that he shared with his parents and younger sister. His feet touched the curb, and the pink bus appeared at the end of the block. It stopped in front of him and the doors opened with a hiss. Between shadows and dark curls, the bus driver’s only visible feature was his lazy smile. In the rosy twilight provided by the bus’ tinted windows and a slowly turning disco ball that hung from the center of the bus, Garron saw Wendy’s fair head. Compared to the other passengers, which were as still as grave stones, Wendy seemed to glow. The announcement that the blue haired young man sitting next to her was her brother kept Garron from committing murder.
“He’s an engineer for The Spectacle,” Wendy whispered across the bus’s aisle. Garron wanted to inquire about the announcement’s meaning, but the burly silence clearly didn’t want to be disturbed. The bus slid through night- soaked town like a sharp blade and soon they arrived at The Mall. Garron bristled, because The Mall made him uncomfortable and anxious, but he filed off the bus with Wendy and the other passengers in silence. His fellows’ trance seemed to melt as they entered The Mall’s main entrance. They gazed about in awe, as though they were entering a world wonder. The darkened stores gave the place the air of sterile catacombs.
“They’ve still go to set things up,” Wendy said, “You wanna walk around until it’s ready?”
“Sure,” Garron said, watching Wendy’s brother depart with weakly suppressed gratitude. They headed down a hallway to the right. It was bathed in the same rose-colored light that had filled the pink bus. Something that straddled muzak and the soundtrack to a palely exposed indie movie drifted through the air. A small group of senior citizens passed them like a lumbering train in the night.
“What’s all of this about?” he asked. Wendy shrugged. “I don’t really care, it’s just cool, you know?” Garron nodded solemnly. He was warmed by his beloved’s willingness to face uncertainty with such nonchalance. Emboldened, he took her milky paw in his own. With her free hand she pulled her phone out of her purse to look at, then leaned on Garron’s shoulder.
“Oh look,” she said, showing him a post on her Tumblr dashboard, “There’s an album gone viral called Greatest Hits of Mind Control. I wonder what that’s about.” Garron shrugged with a dazed expression on his face. A female voice that resembled that from an automated GPS navigator announced through the crackling PA system that The Spectacle would begin in ten minutes.
Either they’d been walking for much longer than Garron had realized or The Spectacle’s workers possessed superhuman industriousness; somehow, a huge, elaborate structure that looked like a crystal palace had been erected in the center of The Mall. Wendy and Garron were ushered into the structure by bored-looking girls in the height of popular fashion. The interior was layered with platforms holding rows of purple velvet bean bag chairs. Our hero and his newly won companion sank into adjacent seats and smiled at one another with mugs worthy of an upbeat commercial. Soon, a motley crew that included Wendy’s brother and a proud looking aging hippie with long grey hair filed into the center of the structure. They held hands, formed a circle, and began to chant in a language that Garron didn’t recognize, but that sounded like consciousness disintegrating into the irrational whispered babbling of a dream.
A purple mist filled the crystal palace. Garron experienced something that rose like a sound but was felt as a movement in his heart. The Mall appeared, in all of its customary, overstimulating glory. Somehow, despite the spatial relationship established by his seat, he was floating over the scene, picking out seemingly random sites: a Batman back pack on a girl with purple hair’s back, a large red shopping bag from a lingerie store, a shiny pair of silver lace up boots. Then, boxes of translucent darkness descended through The Mall, not a sinister darkness but a darkness like a gentle hand on one’s shoulder, blacking out the glaring unpleasantness of too many humans. Soon, the boxes of darkness rendered The Mall peaceful, much like he’d felt walking through its halls with Wendy. One spotlight, then another, illuminated The Mall’s faux marble tile, creating a path. Garron, or at least his field of vision, descended and followed the path. He came to a cave. Above the cave’s entrance was a sign comprised of glowing red letters from a language that he didn’t recognize. He went inside. Glowing red crystals jutted out from the craggy walls. There were books, movies and toys on rotating shelves. Something glowed iridescent on a shelf at the back of the cave. He approached it slowly, excited but knowing that the space that separated him from this particular object of desire was fine in itself. When he reached the object, he found that the light it was emitting was so bright that he could not identify it, but he didn’t care. The object injected him with the feeling he’d gotten when he was in middle school and he’d just bought the next book in his favorite vampire series. Back then, excitement was that simple, and he longed to feel that singularly focused excitment in his current life of warring trends. He remembered how empty he’d felt when he was done with that series, how he’d realized that the series in itself wasn’t so special and that after that, he’d only by chasing obsessions to occupy his time and excess energy. Tears gathered in Garron’s eyes, but didn’t fall down his cheeks.
Suddenly, a white light filled the crystal place. A low commotion buzzed. The face of a man appeared, a face so average (brown hair with an unremarkable cut, blue eyes, a chin that was solid but not chiseled) that it could have been a composite of every forgotten face that glided past you on the street. The man was wearing a white turtle neck and a thin gold chain. The man smiled, his eyes full of compassion and empathy. “This,” he said, “is your truth, and your truth has the power of the fabled only truth. Your truths are beaten and battered within you by your human struggle, but they come out shining like polished diamonds. Yours is everything. Our truths are the Army of God. The Multiplicity is coming.” The commotion in the center of the crystal place had grown into a full-on hullaballoo, but Garron was beyond it all. He Knew now, and life evolved before his eyes like a rose that traded its thorns for more beauty.
— James Chance
I was depressed this morning. I was in one of those moods where I wanted to write a letter to Aaron, He Who Crushed Me, asking him to write me something beautiful about how I touched his life, because despite the fact that I was going through a massive emotional regression when we were “together”, I must have touched him. This was a man who quoted me in a status update and kissed me on the forehead while he thought I was sleeping. Then I realized that I was spoiled because most people treated me like I was worth saving, a bit too messy for their personal taste but too rare to throw out. Then I felt the cool mechanical whirring of my humanity, and wondered what I should feel passionate about. I’m on that cusp in life where you realize that everything about yourself up to a recent moment was ridiculous for seeking to heal ancient wounds, and the only thing to do is reduce yourself to zero and start anew. I started deleting friends on Facebook, then realized that I could just hide their posts. I kept some people from high school’s posts for the sake of a good condescending giggle, like this one girl who had all these pseudo-professional photos of herself holding an acoustic guitar like a prop. I reflected on all the masks that I have worn, and wished that there was such thing as sincerity. The cheapest thing to do on a Saturday night is go to a stranger’s memorial, Harold and Maude-style. I wondered about what I should wear while I drove to the coffee shop, blasting James Chance through open windows.