Who’s Choice is it Anyway?
I know this picture has been around the block already, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Can’t stop looking at it. Who is this woman? I know the answer is out there, but I don’t really want to know, let me wonder forever. The questions themselves are stretching the capacity of my imagination.
Who are you? Where are you? Do I hate you or do I love you? Why am I so intrigued? Are you so far left you’re right or so far free you’re gone? Are you just fucking with me? What will I find behind those sunglasses? Eyes? Unlikely. Dark portals leading to dream realms of logic stripped, of meaning trolled, a world where concepts of repulsion and attraction have been collapsed? Most definitely.
Down one socket, a nightmare of the potential of absolute freedom (to destroy the self), the atheist anarchist in a bandana that keeps the smokebombs out of her freshly washed hair, tossing a molotov cocktail into her own tight ass like a PETA stunt gone too far, like when I once thought it would be funny to buy a Rufus Wainwright CD at Starbucks but nobody laughed and now I have this dumb Rufus Wainwright CD but THIS WILL BE THE FUTURE, she shouts, when radicals get so corporate and evangelical that ironically voting for Trump is the true form of dissent!
Down the other side, a nightmare in a covid-shaped heart, as man in a MAGA hat, a tear running down his cheek, watches a bunch of hippies in OBEY hats seal off a beautiful park with ugly police tape. “What have they done to the earth?” he cries, “What have they done to our fair sister?” He turns to his tough as nails wife (he calls her “mother”) who is wearing a Handmaids Tale outfit, boxing gloves and is holding one of those grisly fetus pro-life signs, and she consoles him, “Get on the Harley, my dear, the fascist bourgeoisie is making me sick!”
If I found myself at that fork in the nose, which hole would I choose? If I knew what awaited beyond the crossroads, I would choose the nose ring.