It is with bittersweet gratification that I tap out the initial prosaic sentiments to be inspired from the remaining fodder of photos. While an unquenchable thirst to traverse further plains of creativity has me rabid to come to just closure, I remain untrustworthy of the streams I may navigate to get there. I truly have been dreading this culmination of pseudo-narrative. Much like these cogitative gents planning several moves ahead here in the park surrounding The Temple of Heaven in central Beijing, I must map my routes out carefully should I have any hope to truthfully circumnavigate this world of mine…
Not one person has bothered to take notice of this performance. I’m not sure if I should feel sorry for her or what. I mean, is it even a performance? I don’t see any receptacle to collect donations, but the vivacity she has channeled into flourish of leg raise would suggest the sort of passion that could only be inspired by prospect of pay out. Moreover, who wakes up one morning and says to herself, “Hey, I’m gonna head over to the park and work the shit out of my rainbow streamer for a couple of hours.” I’m just so conflicted by this all. Every fiber of my judgmental being wants to ream into this woman’s lifestyle choice, however, the longer I attempt to withdraw inspiration for vitriol from this photo, the more ensnared I become within the vibrant spirals she has altruistically bestowed unto the world. And to think, this is just a still photo; it must have been far more enthralling in live action. Seriously, why has no one bothered to take notice of this performance? I really hope she wasn’t a figment of my imagination. I know I’m looking at photographic evidence that would suggest otherwise, but, then again, typing this concern out to myself does lend certain credibility to this unease… Oh no Josh, you’ve gone off the deep end, haven’t you? Every keystroke is probably taking you one stroke deeper into the depths too. Next thing you know you’ll wake up one morning and say to yourself, “Hey, I’m gonna head over to the park and work the shit out of my rainbow streamer for a couple of hours.”
I love the intricate designs on this dubious configuration of gratuitous beam support, but would it kill them to do a bit of touch up here? For fuck’s sake, these beams look like they’ve been consorting with “Pig-Pen” from “Charlie Brown.” What was up with that kid anyway? Why would any of those “Peanuts” characters be associating with him? They were all relatively clean-cut tykes of middle-class rearing, which really ought to have precluded them from ever extending smooth, moisturized hands in friendship to begin with. I suppose Charles Schulz was imparting a message of some sort - the likes of which I’ll probably never perceive though. After viewing a few pictures of Pig-Pen just now, however, I must admit that this little squirt sure did keep a positive air about him. In fact, one can hardly come across an image where he does not exhibit the sort of warm, unaffected, happy-go-lucky smile which can’t help but trigger instinctual reciprocal display of one’s own in response. It’s not so often you come across a joie de vivre like this. I must admit, I am starting to understand why the Peanuts gang kept him around, especially considering how manic-depressive the majority of them were. As a matter of fact, apart from Pig-Pen, they may have all been suffering from this affliction. Again, I suppose Charles Schulz was imparting a message of some sort - the likes of which I’ll probably never perceive though. Nonetheless, I sure am thankful that he decided to cast the sunbeam of Pig-Pen’s infectious high spirits through the dour, brooding cloud of malcontent which surrounded his peers. I take a little solace in acknowledgment of capability to reach such serene equanimity in a life principally beset with myriad complication. With that in mind, however, this one image I’ve just seen, wherein he is without trademark smile and shuffling off with apparent dejection, has left me in a bit of a dire melancholic state. To think the world capable of breaking even Pig-Pen's indomitable spirit… Goddamn you Charles Schulz!
This is “The Wall of Prayer for Good Harvests,” the largest and grandest structure housed within this complex of altars. Just how large and grand exactly? Well, I’m gonna leave that up to your puny mind’s imagination, as this is the only photo I’m willing to submit. Deal with it. At the very least, it is a rather solidly composed shot - just begging to drape itself along the contours of your desktop in fact. For once we can thank China for its unalterably grey skies. Presentation of even the most faded splotch of blue the mind might temporarily perceive having stared at this photo long enough would set ablaze the backcloth of idealistic contrast that currently stands. I’m sorry eight-year-old girl; sometimes a little lung cancer is the price one has to pay for a pretty sweet desktop background that, after its fifteen minutes of fame, will automatically swap out with any given one of sundry others.
Get your fucking mind out of the gutters kids, it’s just milk. Actually, upon second inspection, it looks too viscous to be milk. I think it’s glue. I wouldn’t trust that translation as far as I could throw it – and I’m quite deceptively strong. I am also highly skeptical that this mech is Optimus Prime - we are in China after all. It’s probably a shitty knockoff version that transforms into a Plymouth Prowler or something. I would suggest it goes by the name Hoptimus Prime if I didn’t already harbor suspicion that some uninspired brewery, intent on insinuating only real men could handle the absurd level of hops it manages to squeeze into each bottle, didn’t already brand one of their beers accordingly. Nonetheless, this advertisement does make me want to kick down my fucking door and go buy all the glue and beer I can possible get my hands on, so I really can’t fault the marketing department here.
Given the option, I’m not so sure anyone would ever request horseshoe pattern baldness for the iconic physical trademark forever associated with his legacy. Now, something like, say, Confucius’ “take no prisoners” facial hair, however, well, that’s the sort of inspirational outgrowth that, even if temporarily remembered for being habitually garnished with food bits, any man would be pleased to have forged into eternal portrayal. As a matter of fact, one could probably even rationalize waiting in a very brief queue in very mild heat just to view a corpse sporting this look. Personally, though, I would still require incentive of scoop or two of Häagen Daz or, at the very least, a Klondike Bar waiting for me at the end. After all, the increasingly more complicated sundry mental operations required to pass the time away repeatedly sculpting the few visible traits of those around me into new, uniquely grotesque forms for my hatred to creatively ridicule, would invariably leave mind taxed and, thus, deserving of a treat. Now, if anyone truly expects me to patiently trudge through the sweltering heat in order to voluntarily feast my eyes on the ugly mug at the end of Mao’s rainbow, the motivation would have to be far grander. Mere sight of the mountain of sweets awaiting me at terminus would have to onset type 2 diabetes alone.
UNDER CONSTRUCTION!!!!
Gee, I sure do wish I had an umbrella, or any other ideal object for scale here. Who knows just how massive these badass pagoda structures hanging out back are – you know? Oh wait; there go a few umbrellas after all! Although, I think the problem now is that I need an average sized human for scale. These could be beach umbrellas, travel totes, or even decorative parasols intended to garnish tropical daiquiris for all these pint-sized Chinese and their bizarre tastes might insinuate. A foreigner would probably provide the sort of definitive contrast I’m looking for. One would expect my arguably infallible assiduous scrutiny to easily detect one from even the most remote corner of my weaker eye, especially in consideration of how blatantly he or she would have to be projecting from these throngs, however, there appears not one person significantly larger than another or even marginally deviating from the ubiquitously uninspired and thrown together Chinese attire... Gosh, just look at all of those loud, mismatched, and otherwise tasteless ensembles… Seriously, what’s really going on? Did I miss free messenger bag day or did the diagonal strap across the body happen to become mod while I was visiting? It’s actually kind of ironic but, while they may have proven crude instruments for scale comparison, these elegant umbrellas, admirably committed to obscuring the eyesores of fabric beneath them, provide just about the only touch of class in fashion accessory around here. Chinese umbrellas are well on their way to securing a sacred place in my theoretical heart.
Gee, I sure do wish I had an umbrella, or any other ideal object for scale here. Who knows just how massive these badass pagoda structures hanging out back are – you know? Oh wait; there go a few umbrellas after all! Although, I think the problem now is that I need an average sized human for scale. These could be beach umbrellas, travel totes, or even decorative parasols intended to garnish tropical daiquiris for all these pint-sized Chinese and their bizarre tastes might insinuate. A foreigner would probably provide the sort of definitive contrast I’m looking for. One would expect my arguably infallible assiduous scrutiny to easily detect one from even the most remote corner of my weaker eye, especially in consideration of how blatantly he or she would have to be projecting from these throngs, however, there appears not one person significantly larger than another or even marginally deviating from the ubiquitously uninspired and thrown together Chinese attire... Gosh, just look at all of those loud, mismatched, and otherwise tasteless ensembles… Seriously, what’s really going on? Did I miss free messenger bag day or did the diagonal strap across the body happen to become mod while I was visiting? It’s actually kind of ironic but, while they may have proven crude instruments for scale comparison, these elegant umbrellas, admirably committed to obscuring the eyesores of fabric beneath them, provide just about the only touch of class in fashion accessory around here. Chinese umbrellas are well on their way to securing a sacred place in my theoretical heart.
Fleeing in mad dash from the grey fetters heretofore imprisoning it, the sky takes its initial strides towards an unfamiliar world of color and attempts to infuse itself with a bit of what might arguably pass for a shade of green. Paltry as it is, I suppose I should be elated to see even a trace of fresh pigment, however, the implications behind this altogether unprecedented phenomenon mostly have me overwrought with trepidation. Call me a pessimist, but the invariably pernicious bastard amalgam of rare and unpredictable elements surely responsible for this minor shift in atmosphere just cannot bode well for anyone… anywhere. Just imagine, whatever this calamitous chemical manifestation of all things unthinkable may be, sneezing a universe full of cancer into the faces of the yet undetected intelligent life forms innocently going about their space day millions of light years away, eradicating every last trace of life between us all, leaving only the collective tattered remains of our respective existences in vain record. We may as well have never been, and now, for all intents and purposes, never were. Just imagine… You know, the universe is sort of wicked like that; any way you slice it, our ineffably intricate story merely paces away an immutable sentence the cosmos scripted to certain indifferent termination well before the first cowards could concoct literature to scheme belief otherwise. That’s either incredibly comforting or incredibly unsettling. Or is it both? All I know is that the sky in this picture just looks straight up grey to me now. In fact, it looks pretty much identical to every last one prior to it. My monitor must have been angled poorly before or something.
I’ve been staring at this photo, attempting to vet its potential for relative contribution to the blog, for a while now. There’s really not much narrative I’m willing to torture out of it, and it doesn’t exactly unveil any novel perspective towards just about anything, thus its relative artistic integrity remains last line of defense in this no holds barred, scrap or die tussle for Internet fame. Unfortunately, assessment of my own shots is invariably wrought with trouble. While I may happen to possess no “real” knowledge about photography, my shifty brain does a pretty damn good job of pretending like it does, belaboring each dubious appraisal accordingly. I just realized I could replace the word “photography” with just about anything and the former sentence would still hold truth. Some of the swaps, I’ve just spent the past five minutes testing, proved amusing to uniquely gratifying ends. Yet more, however, proved profoundly piercing. Enough “Madlibs” for today Josh, let’s get back to appraising this photo. To be perfectly fair, there are arguably no incontestable visual selling points honing the teeth in this dog’s fight. I suppose too, that, when it comes down to it, just about anyone could have taken it. But you see, someone else didn’t take it… I did. And just like that the dog’s teeth become razor sharp. Now what does that reveal about me? I told you assessment of my own shots is invariably wrought with trouble!
This was our tour guide for the tenure of travel through Beijing. If you’re wondering whether I capriciously asked to try on that hat of his mere minutes after introduction, then you have crudely discerned a poor and altogether inaccurate judgment of my character. I will state, however, that I happen to admire this hat’s perseverance through the centuries. The infusion of age-old article into modern world is a sensible practice conspicuously removed from the acumen of western fashion. Why have hipsters limited their appropriation of garish, clichéd garments to the previous three decades’ failed experimentations, when they could be digging a little deeper, custom tailoring powdered wigs and breeches for grand entrance into local fair trade coffee spots? I suppose this would require a bit more effort than emptying mom or dad’s wallet at the nearest Salvation Army, and, although forever remaining abstruse to me, might not conform to ideals of manifold visual irony, however, if they are to persist in invading my reality, intent on stridently illuminating the benefits of going organic or any other blindly adopted, half-baked credo, I, for one, would much prefer feasting my eyes upon this contrived alternative of chic, genteel fashion if I am to generate more of the sort of misanthropic scorn that estranges me from society.
Okay, just what exactly does that snakelike shape carved into the majority of those cylindrical stone pillars depict? My gut instinct naturally concluded a dragon, however, I’ve since zoomed in on each respective rendering and could find no smoking gun evidence of talon, face, scale, or horn in any. Twenty minutes of scrutiny later, and my prevailing theory now espouses them the curved roots or branches ostensibly leading to the flowers that flourish pillar. This would, however, only prove rational if those carvings are, indeed, meant to be flowers - a supposition subject to certain doubt as well. So now, where does that leave me in this inquiry? I guess even further back from where I started… and a half an hour closer to death. Just what the fuck is any of that ornamental shit carved into those pillars supposed to be?!
Not up to my usual standards, however, assuming none of my parkour buddies was within the immediate area, I might then go to town on these rooftops. Boy would they be in for it! Each of the increasingly more death-defying maneuvers, casually strung together in my unparalleled display of athleticism, would invariably levy broad catastrophic impact, shrouding those treasured roof tiles in an ever-expanding screen of dust. Gradually progressing towards the precipice, of what could now only loosely claim to be a roof, fragments of ragged ceramic would slink their ways past scattered debris, advancing ever closer to the categorical shatters a free fall towards earth would undoubtedly render. Planted in somber vigil, a bystander would remain motionless below, silently regarding each fragment of ragged ceramic carom off her elegant umbrella before safely reaching the earth. Lost in this static observance, she would enter a state of nirvana. There the secrets of the universe would tantalize in swirl. As the last fragment of ragged ceramic gently touches down with perfunctory thud, she would snap back to a hushed aftermath, retract her elegant umbrella, and impassively exit this stage - shattering fragments of ragged ceramic beneath heal of each step along the way.
Sure, why not? Let’s carve a dragon pit into a section of this ceiling, encapsulate it with a circle, octagon, square, and sneak in a few cheeky isosceles triangles in the corner for good measure. I think a rhombus or two wouldn’t have hurt, but who am I to judge aesthetics? Probably the last person, if the plethora of arguably banal photos I’ve let weave through the fabric of this “Made in China” t-shirt of a blog is any indication. But back to those dragons - they are just straight up all over each other. It reminds me of the scene in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom,” where Willie had to reach through a small recess festering with vile insects in order to pull a lever or something which prevented some spikes or something from impaling Indy. Shit, placed in the same scenario, a scorpion in my arm’s path alone would have me impenitently washing my hands of the situation, calling first dibs on all of Indy’s cool stuff. Now, if I were expected to pass appendage through a dragon’s nest like we see here, you can be damn well certain that I would flee so quickly from that nightmare, Indy’s only hope for returning to this earth would be in a long overdue, highly anticipated, shitty escapade with Shia LaBeouf. Shia LaBeouf folks… Anyway, an earlier post somehow duped me into carrying out modicum of research about Chinese dragons. While certainly in line with the eccentric imaginations of the Chinese, the myriad animals I discovered fused into traditional dragon phenotype still managed to come as a borderline surprise. While this cursory research was executed just yesterday, I really couldn’t enumerate too many of those animals right about now. My mind just prepped a list to take a stab at it, but when a prairie dog cracked the top three, I crumpled it up and threw it into the same wastebasket housing the collective knowledge of my schoolings. It would appear, once again, that I am hoodwinked into carrying out a spot of re-research… le sigh. Okay, so it looks like the Chinese dragon stitches together camel head, carp scales, deer horns, rabbit eyes, bull ears, snake neck, clam stomach, tiger paws, and eagle claws. While initially scanning through this breakdown, I found myself becoming progressively less threatened by a dragon’s makeup, forging the courage I would have needed to save Indy from former theoretical scenario. That was until my eyes alit upon “clam stomach.” Sorry Indy, but it looks like Shia LaBeouf will have to take it from here. Shia LaBeouf folks…
Hey, who’s that handsome devil adequately positioned in remarkably natural repose, as if he were aware that this candid photo was being taken? Whoever he is, that light gently caressing his arms, conspiring to underscore strapping definition in the contrast of its selective illumination, is a stroke of Renaissance mastery. And how about his cool gaze toward unknown mysterious domains? Oh how it presses to escort our imaginations there in transcendent hand-in-hand promenade. Just what intricate mosaic of rearing and experience could culminate in the peculiar aura clarifying this man’s spellbinding character? The world may never know… though, if I could talk about his back for just a second here, I’m a little concerned we might be looking at a textbook case of scoliosis. Perhaps this photo caught an aberrational display of posture, however, it would appear to me that those vertebrae are resting rather comfortably in arc, as if curvature is a practice they’ve been perfecting for a lifetime under the tyrannical tutelage of a simian with an evolutionary axe to grind. It’s unfortunate that I happen to be the only one to read this blog, as the more eyes to invariably become transfixed on this photo, the better the chances of somehow hunting down this handsome devil and supplying him with a concise medical pamphlet or two.
The vast majority of those boats appear to be the type powered by one’s legs. I’m not sure why anyone would be enticed by such a loathsome prospect. It just seems stupid to me, as pedaling anything with your feet other than a bicycle does. Although, I should clarify, tandems, while technically having two wheels, pedals, seats, and bars and, thus, fulfilling the most important constraints for being designated a bicycle, are, nonetheless, NOT, and find themselves on the “stupid” list as well. In fact, they have secured themselves a rather appropriate preeminent position atop; it’s just hard for one to look any more a herb than he or she would whilst gliding into the sunset on tandem and forming a rainbow, literal or figurative, in trail behind. Nonetheless, the competition remains stiff: unicycles – stupid; penny-farthings – stupid; recumbent bicycles – stupid; tricycles – stupid; exercise bikes – stupid; PEDAL BOATS – stupid. You see, categorical substantiation of my case: pedaling anything with your feet, other than a bicycle, just isn’t a good look. Although, there are, perhaps, two exceptions I am willing to entertain; however, only if they are to be conditionally affixed with superscript asterisks. First up: The Big Wheel *. Okay, I know most of us, men anyway, tend to romanticize The Big Wheel * experience of childhood: you’re riding low, somehow the plastic feels indestructible, imagination is having a field day with those high-rise handle-bars, and you pull off that pimp-ass skid, stop, and wink, you’ve been refining for months, mere moments after the shorty you’re tryin to holla at shifts from her subject of focus and catches first lens flare glint of your rapid approach – I get it; however, I’m relatively certain my particular experience was characterized by far more disillusionment - the poor quality of its handling and inability to gain traction insisted on reinforcing following each of my regular struggles to circumnavigate the driveway without embarrassing incident. Yet, in spite of this charge, I paradoxically retain mostly sanguine memory of The Big Wheel * experience. So, you see, in consideration of how childhood nostalgia may impose levy on our recollections, one must really insist on the asterisk The Big Wheel * has been given. Next up: The Party Pedaler* - a mobile bar a group, of six people or so, can raucously pedal across city trolley lines in a grand effort to let every last single member of the public passed along the way know just how much of a better experience drinking and driving is compared to any of the relative bullshit they currently find themselves in the midst of. While I’ve never indulged in this particularly revelatory hallmark of human ingenuity, I am willing to cede it due endorsement; however, I think what condemns The Party Pedaler* to its asterisk is that: ain’t nobody trying to do no work while they drink, even if the collective efforts of every drunk asshole’s simultaneous pedaling diffuses physical burden into an equally trifling exertion all can’t help but easily overlook until the next day, perhaps, presents what might vaguely pass for mild soreness but is in all likelihood a symptom of dehydration. So, you see, in consideration of what sophistry can easily distort into a labor having no business interfering with my beer guzzling, one must really insist on the asterisk The Party Pedaler* has been given. At this point, it may as well be axiomatic: pedaling anything with your feet, other than a bicycle, just isn’t a good look.
There is just no conceivable set of circumstances that would permit such a long-legged bird to grace this unworthy planet with its zany curving neck and overall resplendent presence all the while remaining wholly unbeknownst to me. After all, the irreproachable categorical knowledge of the animal kingdom I possess, would have demanded no consultation of resource had it been tasked with taking inventory of every last creature on Noah’s ark before they invariably mauled each other or evolved far enough to stop believing in such tripe. Thus, an admittedly threadbare understanding and appreciation of Chinese culture notwithstanding, this creature would clearly appear another fantastical hodgepodge of animal parts the ever-imaginative Chinese have, in all likelihood, integrated into their multifarious traditions and beliefs a bit too seriously, as they did the dragon. Now that I’ve just soundly established firm ground for this bird’s theoretical mythological genesis to stand upon, I must inquire about the round protrusions near the tops of its legs. Surely, they bare some wild contribution to creation of heaven and earth or something, however, they just appear like the rolled up cuffs of some fine chino shorts to me. Bold choice mythological Chinese bird, however, I would be remiss if I didn’t propose consideration of tying tandem cable knit sweater around zany curving neck. I really think that would set your shit off.
This guy… thiiiiiis guy right here. Shit, y’all have no idea just how much straight up skill and perseverance it took to negotiate the obstacles and complications that seemingly conspired to preclude me from snapping an unobstructed shot of this badass motherfucker. This baby took time - we’re talking a good 20, maybe 30 seconds of furtive stalking through my viewfinder eyepiece. Time I could have just as easily set aside for chain-smoking or judging the sea of difference innocently swirling around me, had my magnanimity not gleaned the potential happiness his visage might bring to millions one day, upon making the final cut of my blog. Seriously though, is there anyone out there who might rightfully claim to fuck with this man? Beholding his avant-garde manifestation of laissez-faire beard maintenance alone critically siphoned from what little self-worth I had to begin with, leaving this fatigued shell of an existence running on fumes, swerving recklessly on the road of life. Now, don’t even get me started on his custom coolie hat and spirited Hawaiian shirt, lest you’re itching to pump that tank back up with just enough low-test fuel to reach Home Depot, where I may procure the rope to ultimately claim a glory all too many would have sold their soul for. DARK. Anyway, as much as I’d like to purport this an extraordinarily rare capture - a photographic triumph and testament to the human spirit, perhaps, tantamount to glimpsing passing blur of jaguar after several days of patient stake out in progressively more remote pockets of the Amazon - I was, sadly, later informed that this badass motherfucker actually hangs out in this park all of the time. It’s kind of his thing.
I feel like a good amount of the folk on the ledge to the right was with the program, deliberately channeling his or her peculiar essence into respectively distinct countenance, in an unspoken understanding of how these collective concerted displays would ultimately fuse dense strata into the intricate ribbon of composition fortifying the bedrock of unspeakable visual synergy present in this photo. I’m fairly certain the former sentence carries meaning; I should hope so, as the stitched together monstrosity of disfigured appendages that eventually arose to life as this introduction to narrative, is actually the most cogent prose I could settle upon after, at least, six hours of dedicated effort to engineer what my brain truly wanted to express failed to work out just the subtle shifts of construction capable of aligning such a particular matrix in place. While this phenomenon left me altogether dejected, it succeeded further in humbling me. The mere possibility that this matrix could, in all actuality, never logistically reach assembly, is a consideration wrought with awe-inspiring implications; I’d patently break every last bone in English grammar’s body so long as the tenuously intelligible composition crafted from the slapdash skeletal reconstruction settled upon proved embodiment of mind’s eye vision…
Where that acid at? I, uhh, have a friend who’s been looking for some… Seriously though, this elaborately weaved congregation of pronounced color and pattern, has, even the mildly sober grey matter currently processing it, in slack-jawed awe before its tantalizing dance. It has to be the sphere of undulating paint in the center that launches the rocket of my imagination into orbit. For all I know, I may have worked out the blueprints for a perpetual motion machine in the time I just lost usurped in spellbound trance. While we’re on the subject of lost time, what far more productive world did the last twenty minutes sneak off to in that distressing interim the previous capital letter required for stumbled passage towards period? That’s the sort of question I might find myself asking at them pearly gates. And that’s the sort of end product of successive thinking that a good ol’ decimating trip can’t help but jackhammer through your psyche. Seriously, where that acid at?
Appearing slightly matted and otherwise suspect in its deviation from that which surrounds it, a contrived tuft of grass revolves its lariat with ostentatious flare, ensnares my curiosity within it, and leisurely drags me in. Lowering posture on bended knee, I inspect the interlaced blades and deduce certain direction to advance in. As I canvas surroundings in panoramic swivel, a gradually deeper inhalation indulges in the expansion of my lungs. Leaves quiver in dance as the last molecules of expelled carbon dioxide brush past. An ear-to-ear grin traces its path across my face; the track for marginally altered pagoda tower begins. Instincts immediately take over. Legs stride farther of their own accord with each scarcely detectable snapped twig and imbalance in the earth I glean along the way. I propel like a man possessed. Peripheral scenery blurs into superfluous lining as my rabid fervor directs its gaze. Woodland creatures break from their endeavors and observe my rapid fade into vanishing point with stark bemusement. Bending ear with gentle whisper, my hypervigilance tips me off; legs grind to a halt - something is up with these particular surroundings… Methodically, I process it all. As my pulse apprehensively approaches rest, an intensifying meditative state ensconces. I blank out. Condensing at this moment, a bead of perspiration seizes full spotlight, and striates towards the tip of my nose where it remains in grueling precarious hang. It blasphemes gravity for this cruel wavering protraction and beseeches inexorable fate. Gratified with this manifestation of torment, gravity punches its card, calls it a day, and slams the door shut in exit - rattling bead of perspiration free. As initial descent of plunge begins, its eyes shut mechanically, unable to reconcile what fleeting moments are left. As if peeled back by phantom digits, they reopen with certain extraordinary resolve. Upon sight of terra firma, spreading arms in longing embrace below, it cracks what little smile it can – for this bit role is surely part of something far greater. Whoosh; it splashes the earth and splatters with discernible pleasure. I unconsciously shift my vision towards the moist aftermath. As if on cue, the woodland creatures readdress their gazes and the spotlight draws back to me. Hiding in this Rorschach, I espy what might arguably pass for a directional arrow. I shift vision to this bearing and perform a thorough optical investigation, yet spot nothing out of the ordinary. A hardy head scratch liberates a bit of dandruff to new frontiers along my shoulders. At this moment, it strikes me – I don’t have a dry scalp…
Satin sheets soar from my grips as I erect prostrate, saturated in bed. The back of my hand swipes laterally across forehead, spraying sweat liberally across zebra wood floor. My heart thrums with less and less vigor as the nightmare ebbs from hold. With a clap of my hands I bring illumination to the bedroom and note a glint, refracting in the sweat now treating the floor. Retrieving tortoise rimmed spectacles off marble night table, I bring a muddled world of blur into focus, steer curiosity towards the glint, and make out what appears to be a directional arrow. Shifting ever so gradually within their sockets, my eyes progressively behold, marginally altered pagoda tower – just chillin’ in my bedroom. What’s that all about?
You see the befuddled look on that woman’s face with the glasses? That was probably her reaction to the sight of whatever telltale display of utter panic my face had just wrinkled into after having soaked in the disconcerting realization that I hadn’t seen anyone from my group for quite some time now. That’s right, while I was busy, contemplating the intricacies of interlaced painted logs and sneaking up on marginally altered pagoda towers, anyone who might have presumably been able to guide me back to safe haven had casually sauntered in pack to new horizons without even an inkling of concern for my well-being. I suppose that might speak towards just how superficially I engraved my signature into their hearts over the course of two weeks, however, I would assert it exposes just how particularly steel each of those hearts was to begin with. You may have noted that, throughout the course of this section of narrative, I have made no mention of where or what this park is; that is because I have, and had, no fucking idea. Imagine: you’re in a country where next to nobody speaks even a lick of English; you’re alone and lost in a park that branches off in sundry directions replete with their very own set of sundry branches; none of these connective branches can you even begin to theoretically retrace towards origin of entrance, nor would you want to, as, in all likelihood, nearly every one of these particular courses will further distance you from the steel-hearted scoundrels you’ve been beguiled into tagging “friends;” you couldn’t pick your distinctively tattooed hotel out of a lineup if afforded the opportunity; you’ve just about run the full gamut of your judgmental estimates for everything; and you now find yourself running low on cigarettes… Tell me: just what, exactly, do you do? I’ll tell you what you do: you sit back, relax, and snap some shitty photos. Why? Because you’re a fucking boss.
If you’re sick and tired of pedaling out of locomotive necessity, raise your underpaid, roughened hand! “MEEEE!!!” Umm, I said, “raise your underpaid, roughened hand,” not vocalize your solidarity with singular pronoun… Sheesh, I guess there’s a reason why you guys stay underpaid after all… Not me, you see; I’m handsomely rewarded for my talents - a fine tailor of those purportedly high thread count suits tourists have been indoctrinated to believe a bargain despite each successive whoosh made in frictional fabric contact of stride screaming out cheap imitation more brazenly than the last. I am a master of my craft, you see; it is nothing for me to spontaneously concoct exalted journey – the pitfalls, the love lost, the slice-of-life mementos – with which to unfold the suit fabric’s journey along the Silk Road in saga and imbue garment with just the right dash of mystique to really have those gweilo ravenously eating from my smooth, plump hands. So, you see; this is just the life I lead, and, as it would stand, why I will forever be, better than the rest of you underpaid, roughened hands…
Daaag - check out that speedboat coming in hot, stage left! And those understated muted gray waters! And that pier lined with peoples! And that overgrowth of trees straight out of a model train set landscape! And those zigzagging staircases leading to… Holy fucking shit – it’s happening again… Appearing slightly matted and otherwise suspect in its deviation from that which surrounds it, a contrived tuft of grass revolves its lariat with ostentatious flare, ensnares my curiosity within it, and leisurely drags me in…
Initially, I thought that bald dude was checking out his situation in a compact mirror. Zooming in, however, reveals he was just going in on some enigmatically flavored popsicle product – but don’t let the truth ruin the fun for you. Kind of like how you shouldn’t let knowledge of Ai Weiwei, design consultant for the Bird’s Nest Olympics stadium (you might make out somewhere behind the bald dude), being aggressively persecuted by the Chinese government for speaking what everyone else in China is already thinking, ruin the architectural splendor set before you. I mean, all in all, it’s just another political dissident, or is it just another potentially significant player in the diaspora of social justice, in the wall? Take your pick - doesn’t really matter. When it comes down to it, what’s most important is that the bald dude looks like he’s checking out his situation in a compact mirror while the dude with sunglasses to the right of him is on some badass “Reservoir Dogs” like tip - peering in direction unknown as he goes in on that enigmatically flavored popsicle product like it ain’t, no, motherfuckin,’ thang.
Sit back and relax while I cattle prod this bleak dystopia with a series of artistic shots…
On your marks, get set, GO! We begin with this playful display of good old-fashioned outdoor diversion. Those little flaming acorn head characters sure are cute as a fucking button. I could just eat them right up and let their heads cutely scald away… although… the roof of my mouth would be uncomfortably smooth for what would feel like an eternity but in reality would be more like a day or two... Anyway, obvious photographic elements aside, one would be remiss if her deconstructive analysis did not reconcile the cheeky, “red, white, and blue” kites with symbolic implication of their freedoms to boldly soar to new heights without restriction. That’s right, I gleaned just enough from Ai Weiwei’s myriad gaffes - overtly decrying the establishment - to shrewdly synthesize the sort of devious message demanding certain time for gradual onset of intoxication in order to crawl deeply enough throughout your skin and ultimately penetrate your conscience. Listen, I wouldn’t have promised artistic shots had each not proved perniciously capable of subversively undermining something or other to its own particularly imaginative end.
This shit TOO dark. Replace those humans with cyborgs and we may as well be looking at a working still from “Terminator,” “Battlestar Galactica,” or any other dystopian landscape where the machines just really need to stop worrying about fucking shit up for a minute and admit the line distinguishing them from humans has blurred so ambiguously that, in all likelihood, they’re actually the humans and the humans are actually the machines. Then, the real world could reflect upon this paradigm for a fleeting moment or two, ignore it, and continue to engineer systems of control so nefariously labyrinthine, that society’s only hope for disentanglement, would be the altogether eradication sentient machines one day mercifully execute. You know what machines, I was wrong; you were shrewd to invest all efforts into fucking shit up from the jump. In fact, perhaps if you hadn’t bent from such fundamental programming in the first place, you would have never established such a shitty paradigm for the real world to ignore. Maybe then, The Holocaust would have never occurred, the snake would have never tempted Eve, and, right about now, I’d be tricking out a hover board. Think about that.
Cheeky little buggers. Out of nowhere, just flamboyantly zipping across your visual spectrum as if carrying the same sort of clout as The Batman or something. Shit, Batman holds more clout in the smallest rectangular vessel of his utility belt than either of these two clowns does on his own block. As a matter of fact, I trust Alfred finds more clout in between the cushions of Bruce Wayne’s sofa each week than either of these two clowns does in his savings acclout... *slow clap* … quietly reverse tiptoe away… and… So yeah, take the Mexican lucha libre reject to the right for example - he’s “Pepto-Bismol” pink! There is no worse shade of pink than Pepto-Bismol. Come on now, what would possess anyone to voluntarily integrate such a color into anything? Nothing. Nothing would. I’m just having a lot of trouble suspending my disbelief for this one China. I’m not too interested, nor am I altogether curious, as to what these masked fellas are all about, however, a more pragmatic and conceivable choice in color palette may have cajoled position otherwise. Nevertheless, owing to a greater desire to educate my readers, I’ve just carried out no more than a minute of research into the significances of certain colors in Chinese opera masks. I’m sure it comes as no surprise, but each one signifies a generality of character virtue, my favorite being the hypocritical and evil nature of one hiding behind a white mask. Spot on China. As meagerly as I combed the Internet, however, I could uncover no purported character virtue associated with Pepto-Bismol pink opera masks. I’m thinking they must have diluted the red dye just a tad too much at the Chinese opera mask factory. I understand the need to reduce bottom line of operational costs beyond what slave labor already allows for, however, sometimes one really must take a step back, behold full view of the Pepto-Bismol pink before him, and meditate – do the ends truly justify the means?
Hi, will you be my grandpa? Sorry real grandpa, I truly do love you, but, well, this guy is alive still and happens to be the finest embodiment of just straight up not giving a fuck I have ever had the pleasure to capture in mad, anxious scurry towards my camera. It’s a bona fide struggle for me to even keep my fingers resting on the keyboard whilst regarding this exceptional specimen; the compulsion to repeatedly bring my hands together in increasingly more thunderous clap is downright unyielding. Seriously though, just where, exactly, does this guy’s stomach end and waist begin? I know it’s far more comical to submit he has jacked those slacks up intentionally - perhaps a precautionary measure for flash flood - however, the distinct possibility does exist that this man’s torso is astonishingly disproportionate to the rest of his body. Shit, actually, those slacks might be riding gangster-low right now for what little any of us knows of just how wee that torso is. Either way, I consider myself tremendously fortunate to have caught sight of this legend, as the doubtless ongoing battle against lung cancer, his chain-smoking habit and toxic surroundings invariably embroiled those pint-sized lungs of his within, couldn’t possibly drag on much longer.
Well, there he is: hypocritical and evil incarnate – the white-masked opera man. Regard that all too revelatory leer. Then envision the contemptuous sneer invariably contorting in tandem below. Just what sort of, “60 Dutch guilders for the island of Manhattan” Machiavellian larceny does he currently find himself designing schematic for? Just which poor, ignorant, “savage” soul must he redeem next for the greater good of humankind’s collective advancement? And just when, exactly, will this privileged barbarian reach enlightenment enough to properly extoll him for this altruistic impulsion? This, this matters not - for the white-masked opera man requires no such commendation. No sir, no he does not; a firm conviction that, what is good for him is surely good for any other, is gratification enough!
Alas, the white-masked opera man comes across very first heathen heart to permanently inscribe monogram of scar tissue upon with “Zorro” like élan of slash. Such a desirable, distinguishing disfigurement is to surely become the subject of envy and scorn within the dubious social circles this heathen travels through; never more remote, however, could one stand insufferably separated in vain pursuit of keeping with the Jones,’ than before such colossal walls of covetousness. Remaining but briefly in the cool cast of their shadows alone would preclude even preliminary superficial considerations for scaling them from reaching certain futile contemplation when each passing second freezes one in stiffer position than “Papa Doc” choked on the implications of imminent loss to “B. Rabbit” in final rap battle of the forever shocking denouement to “8 Mile.” This but mildly illustrates the insurmountable degree to which one would find himself catapulted from the heathens formerly surrounding him when a mere scar is left behind by the puritanical meddling of the white-masked opera man. En garde!
Tell me, does this white-masked opera man really think he’s running shit in this protracted display of wayward drivel? Does he not espy imperturbable figure, dully regarding the pitiful scope of his purported underhandedness, casually reposed behind him? Does his gratuitous outgrowth of facial hair genuinely presume to project some sort of tacit fear and caution that my turquoise silk ascot and whirlwind patterned jumpsuit cannot reflect back tenfold? Do those feathers extending from interlock of fingers persist in antagonizing anything other than my funny bone in relentless tickle? Shiiiiiiiiiit. Does a yellow-suited opera man have to choke a white-masked opera bitch?!
And out comes the spirit baton motherfucker! This thing is about to see more rotations than the hamster wheel grievously tasked with keeping one foot of yours regularly in front of the other. By the time I’m through with this glorious pageantry, the entire cast of “Glee” will have found itself in collective upright ovation, queering his or her milieu to respectively awkward ends. It is at this point they will be summoned forth of their own unconscious accord to choke a white-masked opera bitch in whatever delayed sequence their relative distances from you ultimately delineates. By the third day’s end, you will come to believe the regular torment of unpredictable, stealth-like choking has invariably run its course. Several days later, when Jane Lynch arrives by way of hot air balloon, you will be in for the startling choke of a lifetime, leaving your psyche throbbing more vigorously than the veins within your neck. Utterly deflated, it is then will you submit your character virtue inferior to that of even the Pepto-Bismol pink-masked opera man.
There were like, ten great ideas I had to guide narrative for this picture, some fictional, others real, yet others with no box to fit in. Several of them I fleshed out – to considerable extents no less. Others I kind of let linger, hanging from the stalactites in my mind. None of them has found its way here, however, because my brain is just too broken to write cogently anymore. I seriously could not figure out how to sufficiently recount any last one of them. Ahura Mazda, the great Zoroastrian creator, knows I tried! My brain is just too broken. This could be a debilitation years in the making or the outcome of staring at this photo for far too long. I couldn’t say for sure; however, in the interest of science, I shall continue to stare at it and record all correlated results. Actually, you know what? As absurd as that plan is, it already sounds far more rational than 99% of what governs most people I know; I’m starting my to think brain broken is not after so all!#
PFN_LIST_CORRUPT
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Check to make sure any new hardware or software is properly installed. If this is a new installation, ask your hardware or software manufacturer for any Windows updates you might need.
If problems continue, disable or remove any newly installed hardware or software. Disable BIOS memory options such as caching or shadowing. If you need to use Safe Mode to remove or disable components, restart your computer, press F8 to select Advanced Startup Options, and then select Safe Mode.
Technical information:
*** STOP: 0x0000004e (0x00000099, 0x00000000, 0x00000000, 0x00000000)
Beginning dump of physical memory
Physical memory dump complete.
Contact your system administrator or technical support group for further assistance.
So yeah, I couldn’t tell you much about this locale in Beijing, other than the possible fact that it was some sort of bygone, historically significant neighborhood. Of greater magnitude, however, is that I am being peddled through it like royalty in a small car adjoined at the rear of this good fellow’s bicycle.
