This week there was another message on the machine: My own parents dead in the front seat of the Lincoln with the suicide doors and the top down, that was the fantasty that amused me along the I-40 corridor. Heads not moving, except maybe shrinking slightly, as the miles flew by. My mother’s chemical hair in the wind. Don’t pick up any eyes in the rear view- ruins it.
How many 1963 Lincoln Continentals sold as a result of Kennedy? You sit in the backseat as a kid and you watch this sort of mass produced american monument slip into domestic disrepair. The stink of cornchips, fido, cigarette smoke. This is what Americans families do. Supplant institutions with the clamor of accessories. AM radio with that landscape, fries with that shake. There is another sour peripheral gasp you can’t place because of your youth and innocence but you can still somehow say to yourself So this is what it all leads to. You see the age in the back of your parents heads, in the car, or on the couch watching Show of Shows, shrunken, composting, floating in the tremens of your budding dementia.
But the voices were lenient. I was able to dabble in psychosis via fingerpaints and small animals. [laughs]
What do they call a machine that consumes and produces nothing? A reverse perpetual motion machine that absorbs all energy and never budges? Maybe I’m not making myself clear. We should focus on the hole. A man and a woman together with this kind of ambition produce a certain hole. But -and I mean this- only my hole seems natural.
I obsess about voids. I’m spending a lot of time at the library, researching my own epic hole-ness. Holesome- this is me. I’ll research, do all the legwork. But it’s your job, Wim, to make the end result something I can live with.