Tuesday, April 22, 2014


The summer before, I had read Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye for the first time, and now I stand, like the protagonist, basking in the layers of synchronicity. Upon an open hill, I am standing alone scanning a flat wooded mysterious landscape. A pagoda in the distance glares like a shrine for a demon, but it is still peaceful here despite it's subtle degradation of the aura. I have wandered into this privileged life alone, unknowing, and unprotected. I have a headache. The summer before I was just as psychickally grey. 
When I arrived I walked half a mile through the woods with a giant image of a pink stuffed bunny on my oversized shirt, because when I found myself among the future elite I became an elitist upon myself. An animal who only gnaws at itself. Not a soldier in an army, but a soldier among field hands concealed in his grimy glory. The back of the shirt reads, "Gracias", as if to give thanks to the field hands and landlords who pointed at my back having fully appreciated the pink bunny costume. I have politely arrived in style.  
Now here comes The Sonic Youth like a tribe from a tree line. They all look familiar, but not in a neighborly way. Maybe we are linked through stardust or maybe just old-fashioned psychick powers. They are migrating like post-apocalyptic warriors from their tombs. Let the elite run their course. I am not completely alone! At least not banished to the Demon Pagoda, or this pimple of a hill, fragile and frozen. All hail the pink bunny in celebration, and we'll seal it through ceremony! There are more like me in The Sonic Youth. 

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