Legal Frictions

The kids were hanging out with the bunch from the suburb college of deskilling. Strolling through the labyrinth constructed of discarded sofas covered with dust, stained refrigerators ornamented with grease dripping from melting icicles, boxes full of rotting debris of twenty McDonald’s meals, icing formed from encrusted puke over moldy  beefstew. 

They are not criminals. Because crime is not possible. Because everything has been legalized. Everything is allowed. And nothing is free. Only the streets. Cold. Hostile. But, at least, far from the restrictive classroom walls. Far enough from school uniforms. In the haven encircled by eroding façades and shaky foundations. Where to be free means to be somewhere. Be it even the vapor from a garbage can hiding a disintegrating corpse on the hottest of summer nights. Be it an exhale of a parasite thought on the tiny remaining part of the brain ravaged by the viral tsunami.

They were hanging out on the ocean shore, in Café Club. Bizzare lived at 25 E Half All(e)y, not far from that epicenter of deskilling. He suffered from something that most accurately could be defined as postcoital-depression-phobia. For that reason his mission aimed at taking all the necessary measures for preventing such sentiment. That entailed creating situations that would exceed feared emotions, thereby excluding a possibility that reality could ever overdo intentionally created conditions. This endeavor required participation of other people and it, as a rule, happened without their knowing it. At least this unawareness continued until their lowlife profile was irrevocably fixed by their low-level potential for recuperation of joyous communication with life.

My friend’s mother was one of the contributors to Bizzare’s strange pursuit. She was of hybrid origin: Indian male and Scottish female predecessors crossbred with the lineage that migrated to the north from Iberian Peninsula as early as eleventh century A.D. Nature presented her with a pair of small feet. Her voice was the sound of a harp’s strings moved by a whisper of a Sagittarius’s satellite. Her hair a golden carpet spread around a welcoming chain of galaxies. She could run fast. Lying on her back, she’d spend deaf nights sound asleep. Dreaming a dream that flourished from an echo of Bizzare’s inviting smile. Her name is zarry(E). She was my friend’s mother. His name is not important.