the mall: is a cathedral, an edifice to profane desire, an other life promised in this life; a better life, a happier life, a life of smiles and fun and love (and sex, but hidden) and beauty and health. neon lights in lieu of sunlight through stained glass. the smell of cheap nourishment. virtue abandoned, vices sated, greed and sloth and indolence catered to. large spaces to feel small in. all that is holy can be bought. the opulence has given way to the dispirituality of value-for-money, of bargains and sales. goodness, merit and worth is a specie (upon receipt of which all heaven's gates will open and the uniformed corporate angels on maximum wage will sing the praise of good deals and wondrous bargains). the realm of caesar and the kingdom of heaven unite, and their minions are large, feeble, effete, defeated, empty worshippers at the altar of waste.
the department store: is mass (from the Latin for dough). aisles filled with empty fabricated shells with no substance, no soul, no flesh. plastic and steel frames offering mass deals, mass stock, mass style, mass taste, hanging in rows heeding the visions of holographic hierophants. the carpeted floor, the lonely corners, the intereflecting mirrors expanding space infinitely, sandwiching cortina-ed bodies ogling selves in covers that can't hide wrinkles and bulges and age, age, age... small invisible altars of anti-matter, sanctified emptiness, standing on a profit, two pennies short and the edifice of drywalls, glass, plastic and cardboard comes crashing - always aware of the coming end. imminent commercial apocalypse. loneliness. the loneliness and wonder of small and unimportant places. a race of ravaged people.
the airport: is a pilgrimage. the flightless prepare to fly to a destination that is holy because it is a place that is better than this place; it is warmer there, and friendlier there, and everyone is happier there and everything is simpler, better, easier, and exciting and interesting once again. the airport is the sacred gateway to temporary bliss that lasts as long as the journey lasts, as long as the destination is prolonged, where the pilgrims meditate with their preferred mystical chants streamed through c(h)ords into their ears from personal digital prayer books as they contemplate knowing, seeing, being before the minor priests lead them and guide them on their way into the mighty roaring mechanical monsters that will take them somewhere, everywhere, nowhere.
the gas station: is an haghiasma, a fountain of holy water where the unctuous libels flow into insensate contraptions that know to bow humbly before the exotic, poisonous, intoxicating fumes of incense emanating from steely smooth immobile frames with greedy digital eyes that demand alms, each standing as a monument to speed, struggle, power, practicality, each a silent menace fueling death, destruction, collapse, misery, filth and the coming day of bio-apocalyptic reckoning. the frames with their long snouts and nozzles are silent and unperturbed. they relish the doling out of the poisoned manna, they thrive on the killing of all; we pray, silently, by their side, and then we grant our alms with subservient gestures of helpless obeisance, sucking out and sucking down, sucking out and sucking down, sucking and sucking and sucking...
the street: is the maze of the religious soul, a metaphor turned inside out, meandering, labyrinthine, leading to possibilities, promises, futures that are found on the way, somewheres, anywheres, contingent on chance, random, without reason, futures unexpected, unexpectable, unwanted, undeserved; decisions of a moment, consequences of a lifetime... chasing without end, arriving without destination, scurrying to and fro, fed by the holy springs, guided by a preconceived path, a path and a way and a destiny that has been paved for you, a fate that has been written in tar, giving the illusion of novelty, liberty, independence and freedom. the streets suck you in, they are mesmeric in fuminous trails of pump and turn, pump and turn, pump and pump and pump, and turn.
the hotel: is a limbo, suspended between the streets, the sky, the fuel, the star. heaven is above and hell is below, and everything is cold, barren, dead, utilitarian, functional, soulless, hollow, until you move on, to other times, other places, other faces, and away from the previous strangers and their cold, sallow never-embraces. the carpet, the lights, the room, the bed, the doom the doom the doom... the coffee machine in the corner, like a dark menacing robot, the desk and the man and the uniform, and the smile and thank you and welcome that all cast an unearthly gloom in shadows spanning from room to numbered room.
the stadium: is an evangelical orgy where the fever seizes the many worshippers on ways paved with grass, thousands pray, in unison, one voice, holler, shout, scream, let it out. the spectacles of triumph and glory, the joy, the joy, the heartbreak, the fury, the elemental outpour, a temple built to all the passions and emotions that makes each man become an idol to adore and a sinner to abhor. the waves of sound, the rhythm of voices, the chants and melodic typhoon, sweep you away, in a dithyrambic orgy of frenzied insanity, the heroes, the villians, their armies, their minions, the victory and the defeat, history played out, life laid out, in macroscopic microcosmic surfeit.
the toyshop: is a sacristy = plasticristy. the formative years are formed then taken apart and reformed. the artifact is a relic from the mystic days. the utopic intent, the potential worlds within a world, an afterlife of yellow red and blue superficies. the clean bright colorful box. the childhood image, the room, the store. a universe of imagination. the hours, the days spent building and rebuilding a plastic soul, and promises, futures. visit the plasticristy and spend a moment of silence in the presence of hallowed reliquaries for ages 9 to 12. pick up the boxes, study the boxes, hear the pieces and the plastic cluckle cluckle cluckle. just like they always used to.
the car: daydreams spent in youthful idylls, staring out of windows, at worlds speeding past, hours upon hours, future wide open, opportunities abound, safety and unity, inside, the world remains without, thoughts combine, dance, and then evaporate, your mind can fly, upward, onward, the elements are friends... the wind through the window, the sound of the air, the sunlight on your lap, the empty, happy, mesmeric stare... no matter what, you can remember the moment, remember when it was once all there, before you, ahead of you, the life and dreams, of a world passing by without sorrows, without madness, without haste, without even a care.
the bookstore: the infinite universe, captured in paper, represented in ink, occupying shelves, in a space between walls, things no walls could hold. stories and adventures and imagination, lives that were, lives that have been, and lives that are yet to be, the words of those who lived and loved and shared, who spilled themselves onto pages without any thought for consequences to their name, the brave, the lonely, the ones who saw through reality's glare, and fought the demons of darkness and death and despair... now 50 square feet is all that's there, 50 square feet of heroic silence and retreat, a hearth for the soul, glowing within, by the winter streets, now so withered and bare.
the office: is the cave of industry, shallow graves for aborted dreams, sludging and trudging through mortified depths, of waste, ineptitude, bigotry and greed... the spirit relinquished in silent assent, the life laid low for dishonest means, senseless, useless, wasted breath for things that no one even needs. The rich may flaunt, the powerful may fancy themselves the top of Greek alphabetted tiers, when classes beneath are raped by invisible hands at the ends of strings held by thick meaty claws that grow fat on their slaves' fears, but within the entrails of enterprising dungeons, beneath the sleek gleaming visages of rancid putrid profit-making functions, a giant is asleep, and awaits a dawn shining once more with a promise of justice, and a dignity restored, to this misery of toil and corruption and deceit.
the park: is the empty retreat... the silent spaces, green expanses, places to wonder and wander, the peace of solitude, the escape from duties and commitments, happy sounds, joyful sights, the elderly who have had their time, the young yet to have theirs, the animals oblivious to our worries, the sun on our backs, warming our bones, the light on our faces, the freshly cut grass, wet beneath our feet, and time enormous, time profound, time enough for everything, time, once our nemesis, is kind now... the minutes roll by, the expanses fade, before the quixotic monsters once again crowd around and leave us in towering shades.
home: and so we're back, to our own place, silent and alone, but an adequate little space, something to call ours, something to leave and come back to, somewhere to be who we are, without distractions, without embarrassments, without inelegance or disgrace. Back, here, to dream our dreams and make our plans, for the little time left us, in a world of plastic and steel... and sometimes, grace.
