Sense of Scenery

'Lionesses Caveat'


‘Lionesses Caveat’


I find myself standing outside in the back parking lot of my work. It’s dark, and it’s autumn. I’ve been drawn there by the noise of hillbillies in giant, rebuilt cars with V-8 engines. They race around the parking lot and make smoke with their tires. They take runs at a ten foot fence and are somehow propelled over it. Sometimes they make it, other times they don’t. I’m not sure if more people join me as a spectator, but I feel presences beside me. Two hillbillies in an flat orange (which reminds me of decay) monster with some sort of black non-sense words scrawled on the sides take a run at the fence and falls short in a slow motion crash. In the cabin of the car, as they spin upside down in a mess of glass and metal, I can tell they’re laughing but embarrassed. A ‘voice’ tells me that their father’s never paid attention to them. The voice says that this oversight is a poison in men. It undermined their potential, keeping them forever locked in a fight with themselves to rise to standards that will never be fulfilled, because there’s no-one around to validate them. I say that was years ago. The voice says it doesn’t matter. If they’re not embraced by their father’s in youth, it would take a most adaptive search in intelligence to accept the absence of validation. So it’s about moving on, I say. It’s always about moving out from the centre, the voice says. More cars start to show up, racing around in angry chaos. The parking lot smells like gasoline and burning rubber. Among the noise, to my left, a lion and her cub appear. They gravitate towards me, but the mother is extremely cautious. I don’t question why. I assume she’s desperate. I try to lure them closer, as if to say, I’m trustworthy.

The police start to show up and I lure them into my workplace. I appear to be alone with them now. The cub is about the size of a small kitten, and I can’t get over how miniature it appears to be. The mother is vastly larger. The mother begins to play with me as if to test me out, which is exactly what cats do. She’s rough and erratic. She scratches me up a bit and tastes my hands. She’s not entirely sure what kind of cat I am, but I think she determines that she’s safer inside this building. Faceless people start to show up and play with the cub. Every time they touch it, it becomes covered with all sorts of grease and chemicals, turning its fur from light, white/brown to soft black and a kind of multi-coloured makeup. I’ve noticed that I have done the same thing to the mother. A burning kind of panic builds up inside me, and the next few moments take on a different behaviour. I begin to try and coax them out of the building. I realize that nothing here is safe, and that by removing them from the building, I can somehow free my conscience of everything; of knowing the grand pollution of everything that occurs ’out there’. Questions are now answered instantaneously in my head. My head says, what the fuck is with the destructive element in us? A ‘voice’ says, the fear of darkness is instilled in your genes. You've spent millions of years in the dead of night, hiding in the forests. Your fancy tools of destruction bring you comfort. You may protect yourself from animals and humans at the flip of a switch. I say, take those away? You’d be nothing, again, but don’t be so judgemental. You didn’t create the machine. The machine evolves in such dimensions that its languages and applications are hard to decipher. A cause and effect could have many varied purposes. But nothing comes back once it’s gone. I finally persuade the mother to the door with extreme difficulty. She appears angry with me. She appears to understand that I’m kicking her out to fend for herself in the Great Black Uncertainty. The cub is the last to trot past me. It appears sick and weak. The more it was touched, the sicker it appeared to have become. I feel beyond angry and powerless to do anything about it. They leave and I shut the door.

A fucking scumbag/rube of a co-worker I used to work with about eight or so years ago appears at my side, but I don’t turn to regard him. He says that they’ll be dead in a couple days. He seems to be happy about this as he joyfully pops a cigarette into his mouth and laughs in that rat-fuck way he had always seemed to pronounce. I come to a tiny back room with a small black and white TV (with spurts of pink and green colour?) where my father sits and watches people in third world countries eat their own feces. He shakes his head at me and says that this is terrible. I’m in a trance-like state and it takes me a while to verbally agree, but I feel distant, like in a high of THC or Codeine. I walk out of the room but I can still see the broadcast. Over a radio in the centre of the building, a programme is playing clips of nineteen forties music. A radio show programme beings. It states that Jack Kerouac died from being exposed to too much background radiation. The host says that this is a similar death to those who have spent too many years in high altitudes like that of pilots. I can see the radio show on the little black and white TV behind me? I can see waves of background radiation in pink and green pulsing sheets of dust-like matter, jetting out into everything like weather. The host says that there are many types of radiation: as varied as the light spectrum. He says that there’s even such a thing as dark light and it’s the heaviest of radiations. He says it’s comprised clots of radiations: dense and misinterpreted particles. I become aware of the white noise scattered across the little TV screen and coming through the speakers of the radio. The host says the more distance you cover in the upper atmosphere, the faster you die. The radio host’s voice, though sounding like that of an older man, is energetic and passionate. He goes on to explain things I can’t remember. I do remember feeling that the host was a man I could trust, because he wore his emotions on his sleeve. He wasn’t a hiding man. He was urgently trying to connect the dots; and thus, to not only find others like him to communicate with, but more importantly, to diminish the fear of the vast, violent nothingness that surrounds everything that is slowly ending.