Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Fresh flowers...

Sun Onoma is our man in the inside, year 2-thousand-and-too-soon, pulling a double shift on the bureaucratic front, Moon Immigration by day, donKay by night. Like butterflies he's collected responses to the moon immigration recent arrival questionaire, (specifically question 1B: How do you like it here!) which capture the mind set of those recently arrived after a long stint among the trees and branches of jungle. Based on examination of his questionaire, this fella got placed as a bricklayer. But not too long after he built his own apartment on the outskirts of moontown and hung his hammock therein, wasn't he surprised about the letter he got in the mail, secret post, on that fancy academie homemade heavystock parchment. If you brain scan these people and look at it like a Rorschach your first thought will be that someone had asked you to draw a tree. In the future of 1430, we used to hang in the donKay lounge waiting for Sun to come around. One of us would ask Sun, 'have you got any fresh flowers for us today, here where there ain't no flowers' and Sun would always say 'boys have I got a fresh flower for you. '

Heard them talking about the shower earlier. According to the guest the water burned his scalp with a "searing electricity" so fast he couldn't make a sound. Just because he's new. Just because he doesn't yet know what the water flows like under a third less gravity. It never goes white. It stays clear, it kind of looks as if a glass tulip bulb was sliding through a camera shot with the shutter left open, if I remember correctly the technology I was familiar with back on earth. Here on the moon, sometimes it feels like high school, sometimes it feels like college, sometimes it feels like a french movie, or a dramatic 600 page book that everyone loved in a forgotten decade. The room is one long length with a few extra walls. In the hall, the color of the first room continues at a level even with your rib.

Dreams are so surreal here they feel like exploitations. Like last night, I had a family of tall daughters with red hair and pale skin, I was becoming a judge. I was real proud carrying a box of plaques from my senate chamber through a doorway looking for someone making a photo flash but I don't know who. Who knew sleep would give you a chance to just chill so much here? I recalled the flash in front of some others who paused in a frozen glass mold which gave them a two dimensional cutout vibe until somebody's eyebrow rolled down a forehead like a caterpillar and we just laughed and tried walking again.

This I was telling to my friend on Lua Avenue, when we realized we'd sunk nine inches deep in the muck of the streets. To extract ourselves it would take a series of efforts that could hardly be performed without some sort of involuntary grunt escaping. I realized then, that although we had just been laughing about the earth before the jungle, no one here on the moon was going to act as we in jungle did. They were not going to scream theatrically and gesture in a manner only excusable in the cloud dark jungle. On the moon, at an intersection, one is gonna kill the face of any gesture. One is not going to let shit fall in a moment when sure that it won't hit his feet, just because here it would be seen by the other. The moon, of course, is too bright for that.