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apathy is harder than it looks
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22.5.04
for dinner I had a plate of sweet spinach, a tall glass of soda water, and a lawrence welk show.
it was the only episode they ever shot in new york city.
1958.
The musicians smiled too much
the electric guitar was played undistorted, like a violin.
girls younger than britney spears sang about true love.
one looks younger than twelve with the toothy grin of childhood and pigtails.
Kathy, the cutest one, was turning fifteen.
after a very white, very smilely rendition of "happy birthday to you", lawrence welk asked her to dance.
the cameras only showed the orchestra playing.
when the song ended, lawrence appeared again without Kathy to introduce to next performer.
ten minutes of canned smiles and eyes that make love to the camera later, I can tolerate no more.
with the flick of a button, I shut those people out of my life.
I have killed them. They were dead anyway.
I don't understand them. They are not of my era, my era of spoiled adults and aimless youth.
my era of bounty
my era of waste
They carry hope in their eyes. foolish. I live in their dreams and can see their flaws.
They are trapped ghosts in my television. I cry for them not because they are dead and unchanging, but because their dreams died from an accumulation of imperfections.
I look forward and see nothing.
I refuse to suffer the same fate: the death of dreams.
19:22
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