scott bruzenak

December 20, 2008

this is the official start of the personality cult of me.  beyond this point back in time, i was a collection of random vectors.  going forward, i am an idea about me, replaced constantly by an ever-increasing sense of me-ness which will be cultivated like a garden of stone.  the workmen come at night and leave no trace-comrades dissapear like those of stalin in revisionist portraits, and we get an ever shinier and more resolute person standing, facing the internet and the physical world.

mindshare in this courageous world will be granted by consensus.  the market bears mushroom clouds of words; they rain black radiation of glowing praise and tins of pressed meat that will remain floating in the ocean of our commons for centuries.  or, at least until the infrastructure grows hollow and is exploded for a deer-run along wilshire.  today’s civilization is tomorrow’s landscape.  today’s problems are tomorrow’s mythologies.  what were these people?  what was scott bruzenak?  was he a collection of generated words?  an origami of demographics folded with the paper of dna?  who controlled his statistics?  where are his bones? 

in the time before my idea, there was only a common collection of people.  after me, the world was sorted and mulched for a seedplan, the rows orderly and placated into a golden torus.  we became more than a sum of qualities. 

the simple truth is a complicated lie.

so, weekly, we meet hidden, underground, to commune with a beam focused in the middle of downtown LA, we are left there with our bottles of plastic water and electrical conduits.  we love to hold our faith in limbo waiting for the word.

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los angeles bus

December 14, 2008

it’s an easy walk to the 750 at dawn.  we are falling through a tidal pool of roses; we grab radiant the arc of light here in a pale silver leaf.  our ears mercury to the touch, they are found again in tires, in reverberation out along a marbled conscience thick with sleep and fracturing dreams.  explosions of neurons react; a chemical information manual with leaves, sidewalk and sky.  we are pouring ourselves into this twisting world, we thrust ourselves into its jaws, our quivering city.

the light changes to green and i walk across woodman.  several cars pull up with their lights on.  the meter in my head recedes into a million unanswered questions, rent, job, love, peace, fear, peace, peace.  so the bus comes right on time, there’s an led flickering red that makes sure of that, and i get on.  the bus is warm.

off into the metro is like walking into the most comfortable, boring purgatory we can make ourselves.  i walk down and see a few, all moving in agreed convenience for the anarchy of speed.   metal and the silent, mostly just waiting and more waiting.  i feel the wind on my face being pushed by the train 1/2 mile away.  it speeds up and i hear a beautiful ratio from a motor maybe of a bit shy of 5/4, and then the door chimes closed with a true 5/4 close to 100 cents flat.  it sounds like stravinsky and i wish he could have run the trains somehow.

i know these people.  they wait like me and file themselves into their daily function.  we are left together in this place, abandoned and inhaled into the lungs of the day.