Distortion by Hayden Wayne

Did you ever notice those of us who are more into distortion? For instance, the ones who’ll get out of the surf and just lay down in the sand with nothing between them and their newly encrusted kink, but the growing passivity of indifference. At least if they would lay down in the wet sand just beyond the surf, too compact to noticeably dislodge; but no, dry arid sand. Crusted all over their backs and in their hair, it doesn’t faze them. The sand in the car seat that never gets swept away, is no different from the sink of dirty dishes that somehow never seemed to get washed, the bed that never gets made, or the scattered coffee cups with various residuals of grinds that are strewn all around, the way a dog marks his territorial imperative. The encroaching clutter simply gets stepped over.

I marvel at all the seating surfaces that can no longer serve their purpose because something has been tossed there. I don’t think the randomness of leaving lights on in rooms that one doesn’t intend to return to, or the toilet that doesn’t get flushed is an act of the absent minded, but a pathology predicated upon anger and resentment, a total rejection of authority and order.

I live in an environment of constant chaos. I wasn’t raised this way. And with every attempt of my wishes for any semblance of order, and the discipline to keep it in such form, in what seems a continuum psycho babble, I’m accused of O.C.D., Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Simply put, it’s exhausting. Sometimes I even feel as if the clutter is seeping into my mind through osmosis.

In my travels, I’ve witnessed souls who scratch their ass and smell their fingers, as well as those who pick their nose and eat it. I find it impossible to walk anywhere without coming across someone, or more aptly a crowd, who has found it necessary to pierce their bodies and illustrate themselves into the singular identity of the global tattoo artist; proudly wearing their momentary impulse that locks them in time.

What is this blood lust of nihilism? I was taught that there is a level of accountability to one’s self, and those we frequent. Our body and our consciousness are a most precious gift. Sharing is everything. And yet, I find myself sinking deeper into the chaos of indifference and self destruction around me, that grows exponentially on an alarmingly rapid devolving scale.

Try to find someone who is willing to give service, let alone, talk to you civilly. It’s as if hope has all but disappeared and the final vestige of greed and taking care of “number one,” is fueled by fear and the want of Armageddon. “Now, me, mine, fuck you, fuck everybody.” No accountability; no responsibility; no humility; no humanity; voyeurism; the unwillingness to take control; the need to be perpetually entertained; the inability to still one’s self.

The concept of collaboration doesn’t even register. It’s everyone else’s fault. If these nihilists were truly in tune, honest, educated and with any sense of the consequence of action, with proper sentence syntax, they would say, “I humbly beg your pardon. Excuse me for encroaching into your awareness. But since I have, would you please be kind enough to excuse me while I continue to fuck myself into total self-destruction.” Or better yet, they would simply disappear, herd themselves like Lemmings racing for the sea. And with one big flush, the earth and air could breathe a sigh of relief, cleansed from this nihilistic self-indulgence that screams for more than equal time, while contributing nothing to warrant the minimum of an equal voice.

4/14/06