TWIST
...there's never enough time.Monday, November 06, 2000
I’d like to say a word to the people, not so much the people in the audience...
before, but I suppose we're all busy and as I had no
time to myself to write you most likely had as little
time to read. I think about what you wrote to me
almost everyday, there's something about that text
that struck me in such a way, how it was mysteriously
written almost in code as it so unexpectedly sat
burning white from the Evansdale lab computer screen.
Move aside, and let the man go through.
A sort of battle cry, as it were... if you think about
something and bounce it around in your head long
enough it starts to scream at you. It turns itself
inside out right before your proverbial eyes... well,
perhaps your brain turns it inside out before you...
well, more likely your brain turns itself inside out
thinking of the infinite possibilities of meaning
within the simplest of words that you repeat to
yourself so completely, varying the rhythm and
kaidence so subltly every repitition that you don't
even know where you are when you're done with the
thought, and you least of all know how you got there.
You begin to see the world in not such a different
light, persay, but suddenly the light BECOMES
something to you... it is and entity all its own, it
is another thing standing in the room with you,
another object to take up your precious space.
Super BonBon, SuperBon... Bon!, Super...
Bon.....bon!
The theory of words and the vastness of what the
imagination can to with 26 letters is beyond ...
well... the vastness of the imagination.
Suddenly you're standing in a crowded basement bar...
the adolescent brainchild of the sharp cutting-edge
crisp magazine glamshot photos and the raw grit of the
$15,000 indy film. You hear music that is some
intoxicating combination of the of the lights and the
warmth, the odd colored drink that the shot girl just
handed you, and the sheer power of the perfume from
the blonde in the tight black skirt behind you who is
the remarkable, and beautiful combination of Krista
Bordner and Sarah Michelle Gellar ... somehow makes
everything... per-fucked... just per-fucked.
The music rises, as per-fucked music sometimes tends
to do... you see the entire crowd... somehow given the
flexibility to go from a calm James Tayler audience to
a riot. They rise up... in unison as it were, moving
as a mass of humanity and a sample of the human
sexuality, that in the end, drives us all. The women
begin to breathe heavier and the men can to nothing
but raise an eyebrow at some of the shit that appears
to be about to go down. As the beat continues you can
smell the sex in the air, perhaps it's so strong that
it radiates over the perfume and the sweat and the
alcohol... but more likey, it is the inevitable result
of the mixing of all of it. The once unfamiliar faces
around you are suddenly family, and you have not a
quam about grabbing the blonde from behind you and
leading her out to the dancefloor. Songs you hate on
the radio begin to come over the huge speakers
suspended only inches over your head... you love them
though... this once loathed music beats in unison with
your heart and you libido, and the incredible
sensation you feel radiating from the tight polyester
covering the blondes treasures. There are no clocks
in this place, for there is no time. There are no
windows in this place because there is no outside
world. Who you are here is not who you are... well,
you know how it goes.
-Tim Wigton
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