Fruity drinking modernists, whispering bourgeois platitudes whilst encased in mud encrusted realism’s
“Oppressive details of modernity, its Dirty realism” they whisper
As they sip their green drinks, among disinfected franchises
“Extradites of the simplistic. It’s like watching a soapy.”
One of them laughs at the idea. “Soapy. Clean plots, unclean people.”
I am not sure I am welcome in this domain of this self-hating temple
“Dystopian narratives?”, my question seeming to be sitting on the air like a ignorant child’s observation of the obvious
Looking long, and drinking some more, then Tweedy waves his hand at the effervescence silence.
“Not always. A possessive obsession of those, things we consider dirty.” He tastes the words like a snake, waiting to see if the air is deflated of my question
Seriously, a stuck up Hat-man, such a brown nose he has I thought, he doesn’t realize how much we need the junk, how we need to realize we need to recycle it, compost it, re-purpose it, let it influence us, and how it influences him
“Oh Tweedy, oh tweedie, you are but a mind junkie, kindled by the thrash of so called unclean. As much as you would hate to admit it. Cycles are needed, feeding into each other, like rivers. Of course any second now you will ask me to stick to just one metaphor. But I ask you, why should junk like me do that, you take our freshest mud and excrement, say “oh look at that, how silly this low brow thing is” and then you let it come in stay like a stray cat. It likes to sit and wait, then one day, you will realize you feed it just as much as you feed the dig dog who barks at all your supposed wrong.”
I pick up his drink, drink his drink, smile at him, and walk out without another word. Ready to cover the world in the words of the so called trash of the real. This dirty realism, it isn’t so much dirty as it is a part of the whole cycle. Live with it. Let it in. Feed it. Morals from the hang ups of a culture who hasn’t worked out how we talk to each other.