In 2018 Bieber retires from the stage. He unexpextedly abandons the tour. He abandons the managers. He leaves behind the sponsors. He leaves his gold watch. He removes the diamond studs & leaves them behind. He doesn’t pair the studs together; he takes them out & casts them away, fuck where they fall it is heard that he says. He doesn’t say goodbye. He doesn’t reveal his plan. He just leaves. he walks away. “Not that I walk away for good. I am not in exhile. I will return when I want,” and in this sense Bieber frees himself from the simultaneous shared time of uber fame & fortune paired tightly with the concrete of dependents, co dependents, corporations, audiences, & retinas magnetized for a fall or a rise or a fall. “And if I choose to pursue table tennis, or mixed martial arts, or visual art, I will go into the practice fluid, & with the knowledge of this: in order to be taken seriously I must and will practice and achieve until the irrefutable occurs. Just like I’ve done before, perhaps I might do it again, without extras.” And it was all very simple. In 2018 he left the stage. He now with a debit card of unlimited funds, and a license, insurance card, wrapped together in leather sheaves inside a leather wallet, justin walked away from the stage in pursuit of another. God bless your fortune anything is possible.
It was precise, is routine. The breakfast was finished, his day begins. Just outside his window, several yards into the grass, two black ants march to this new adventure, this new day. He opens the door. Jack closes the door. Birds chirp but begin to lose there way. The ants, they are marching blind with intention. A refridgerador opens, Things are taken out. Jack closes the refridgerador. A bird flies into a window. A car crashes. A tennis game has begun. Jack sees a tennis game end from his window. With his right hand he turns the blinds…close. Thirty miles away the left trap of a youth tightens & knots. It has been pulled. Pain will exist. A coffee cup will be filled. Jack drinks the rest of his coffee. He places the cup .29 millimeters to the right of where it was before. A drop shadow occurs in real life. A bug loses its way. A tree has fallen. Jack turns on the dishwasher. A mosquito is swatted. A mosquito is injured. It dies. Jack sees it die & feels regret, “as if I didn’t have enough red to share,” & many miles from his sight somewhere someone forgives him directly.
….on & on & on, and off,” Franklin had concluded his morning’s thesis, the one in which he woke up to, in the middle of, to the acceleration for becoming something more. That, or by waking up he became less. Either way, Franklin reached a conclusion: “There is a separate self inside that only exists when I sleep and for exactly 7 minutes immediately after I wake. That separate self, which by now is foreign having been awake for nearly 2 hours 16 minutes and 37 seconds–41– lingers to complete a transition or ‘passing of the torch’ to the self responsible for…living in the world & doing the things to survive. Two selves. There is no ego. Both are capable of past, present, & future visualization & contemplation. And of imagination, pain & pleasure. To which serves the other’s purpose? We find it is a mutual relationship. The thing sleeps to regenerate. The regenerated thing actively survives to sleep. It’s just that simple. To extend, while there is still time, both are able to connect divinely, also which is more widely known as creating Universi. Together, these two selves, if looked at as a collection or pair coexisting, create Universii. Now, in these two worlds, there are distractions pointing toward the much lesser ‘Shared Reality’. This is the world of psychiatric medicine, media outlet fear blasting, consumer-driven fat shaming, religious overbearing correctioning, & the list goes on but I am running out of time. We are able to be steadfast & undistracted. Did you see the transition there? Between ‘time. We’? Just like that the choice for us is there, to in a sense abandon direction & fall into the 44th dimension–” & just like that Franklin merged into the active self, the one known as Franklin, a sound & face & role. He needed to shower. He needed to go to work. He needed to eat. His body needed him. The unamed sleeper needed him, at this time & on this day, to go ahead with it and complete half the share. And Franklin will. He will. “And though I will, it’s altogether important for you to know…I….I….first need to play a video game. I hope you will understand. I need to drink an excess of coffee too. And shortly thereafter I need to stare off, & feel disconnected,” Frankling concluded. And he did. He did all these things. & more
We created space. To how much each requires space, is it dependent or universal, this is the question not to be answered at this time, on this day of days…on The Status of Things. Larry packs his socks. He folds them first in halves & presses them with an aged right hand. The deep blue worms just beneath his thinning skin move to the adjustments of pressure along the ends & folds of his socks. As he quietly packs them. And pauses, to stare off. He reengages the socks. He pauses to stare off. And just like this Larry spent his morning, all two hours before, “I must leave soon. I am leaving…I must go soon, I must go to work.” His teeth, now unbrushed, to be brushed soon. Cleaned for future stains. Breath cleared. Disheveled describes his hair. Lost is his demeanor. We find him at the intersection of intense presence & abstract absence. He comes forth & leaves just the same. He is here but then he is not. This is The Status of Things for Larry. Weeks ago he left the hair of his head behind, to be flushed–& it was–and it will clog a future resident’s drain. He is the ascending part of a rollercoaster; he is the descending part of a rollercoaster.
Jobe’s ears were constricted by a new pair of large headphones. Both lobes squished partly out the bottom, and the cartilage lining the tops of his ears reddened by the pressure of form & music. He lay on his bed with an open book face-down resting on a stomach breathing slowly, to the slow beats of his chosen music. The pain of his ears and the music of his device together gave him a freedom he would count on, day-after-day, many days & nights & mornings–whenever he could–to escape or assimilate or cope with the changing environment of his home & of his friends & of his body. “There is no control here–I have no control of anything, I never did…” Posters & magazine clippings, drawings & report cards, calendars & pictures of all sizes, of all sizes of everything, were carefully assembled with double-sided tape to hide the white walls underneath. Once put up, Jobe never took what he taped down. In a sense, there in his room with two focuses, legs crossed at the ankles, hands crossed & intertwined at his chest, open-book being temporarily finished rising & falling to a slow pattern of breath, he simultaneously existed in the accumulation of his past with a sharp pain in his lobes holding him hostage in the present, all to themed music, which he controlled with a flick of thumb. A barren, light brown desk vibrated to three computer fans, caked with years of dust, cooling a computer that hummed at its best & displayed graphic pornography at its worst. “To feel pleasure, to feel it now & now I do not want I do not know, I am in love but the girl does not love me back,” we hear from Jobe. He’s young. An older brother has grown past this stage of Jobe’s in a room adjacent, yet both are in their rooms, “for one’s own space is necessary,” Jobe’s older brother replied. And he too played music, from a stereo. His sounds rang out & vibrated & hummed against the painted walls, underneath the half-inch space between door & low-rise champagne carpet, into the hallway, down the kitchen, into bathrooms, into his brother Jobe’s room who had his own interests. The proof was there, on his walls, the words from his book, the way he crossed things together like his ankles & hands, his eyes when he shut them, pain & music thematically played to passionate, pulsing love heating his body for some current girl to ease the stiffening bone below, nothing more, but Jobe doesn’t know that yet, “he will,” his older brother replies. Somehow we’re all together in this, somehow.
Henry laced his shoes while Mother stood in the doorway watching him, feeling both happiness and sadness that her forty year old son, now even more obese and obscene, was still living with her, she an old mother of two. Her body was getting older and weaker by the day, though she tried to cover up her decaying Subject, it was understood that she would soon die. “Time passes,” thought Mother, her eyes drifting downward into the looming future, away from her terrifyingly obese son. Her back was stiff, her legs were shaky, her boobs were saggy, and her soul was over-saturated with an obsession of time passing; “My time has passed,” she says, accidentally, perhaps subliminally or unconsciously, out loud. The pain of time pinched her heart—the memories of good fading—caused tears to form inside her ducts and cascade, trickle down her wrinkled cheeks. Mother sponged her tears with a dry tissue and tossed it into the wastebasket adjacent of Henry. “Under and over, Goes Mr. Rover,” Mother was speeding ahead of time and Henry was retarding behind it.
A fatty jiggle rushed through Henry’s body as he defied gravity onto his feet. The ground quivered. Soon they would venture outside and into the unfriendly city. Henry and Mother, they survived only with each other, but their togetherness was a curse: Henry was handicapped without a handicap and Mother was talented without an agent, not one seemed to care about another, each one independent as the next, each more important than the other—
“Oh Henry, Mr. Face is waiting for us! It’s been ten minutes since I asked you to get ready, what have you been doing in here anyways?” Mother insisted upon being timely; she cared about people, deeply, as much as she cared about being timely. As a principle, she was selfless, thoughts and actions always belonging to others, never hers. Life and living was always about the other or another and never about herself. Bystanders and strangers accused Henry of taking advantage of Mother, but of course, their accusations fell to deaf ears—for Mother cared for Henry as God cared for his only Son.
“I can’t concentrate when you are there just watching me like that. How many times? How many times!” Henry pulled at the shoelaces, defusing the two and starting anew, he must start over he thought, a shoe must never be tied in a hurry for fear of it becoming undone in the wrong moment, like when being chased by angry children in pursuit of a bouncy ball now stolen. Mother saw what he had done and left the doorway. She still had to feed the cats and