I have respect for Wal Mart. Yah. Jeez. Who wouldn't. I would own their stock too. I think that recent ker-ploppy was a good entry. But they're not on fire-sale like K-Mart. K-Mart's shares look like they're going under faster than Titanic.
Like a drunk teenager is driving.
Down a corn-row of phone poles.
I've always been very challenged by stores like these. I usually ask to stay in the car.
K-Mart, back in the days of rabid Blue-Light Specials, used to make me violent. Well ~ have violent urges, and become very agitated. I never actually hurt anyone, except for probably some of my tissues.
Now; I think that was a cultural problem. I don't know; we could ask jp, I think she has insights on this. I'd definitely get a physical reaction to being exposed; but it wouldn't stick and compound daily interest and "carry over to other activities" in life.
And it would enter through a path, a chink; a cultural exposure pathway ~ I'm just not born (or "honed") for American, K-Mart culture; commercial culture. And it would intellectually or consciously invade my biosphere, and break down my rational systems; like PCB's. Revulsion, empathy, pathos, chaos, victimization, homogenization, ghastliness, futility, nihilism, emptiness ~ the whole K-Mart line. But it was attacking my brain, and then, there-through, grappling my nervous system, and eating it like eczema.
Now it just goes straight through the skin and nervous system like boiling chlorine; starting in the car; actually starting in the driveway; even though all the doors to the mind have been slammed shut, twist-locked, and boarded-over with sheets of waferwood.
Since I already use a cane, I've thought of getting blind-people dark glasses, and just tapping my way around on MJ's elbow, and maybe I could get in there. Because sitting in the car, forever, is hard. We stopped at one by the freeway, and in she went, and out came people, and in went people, and out came people with stuff and carts and sacks; and in went people, heading for the doors, like Soylent Green; and I started to feel revulsion, empathy, pathos, chaos, victimization, homogenization, ghastliness, futility, nihilism, emptiness, trashiness ~ the whole parking lot line.
You've got "car;" cars; parking lot aisles ("foreshadow"); parking "space"; walking people; walking people funneling over to the K-Mart aperture, walking people "becoming K-Mart Shoppers", and "inside K-Mart." [Don't go there.]
Then after an hour, in a day or evening, you reverse that; with clangy banging carts scritching over pavement rolling and crashing; and jumping each other's butt in pens; and crinkly bags sounding like ashes and catching on latches and spilling their guts until you get home; as essential American K-Mart items are scattered like frittered spore; from the front-links of wide-world distribution and boats and routing and marketing; sputtered hurly-gurly to rear areas of consumption and destruction like rations of tins of beef, or dime-bags of dust.
Like a hen, sitting on a rooster.
And a person walking by the Toyota in the cripple-spot sees the person inside a-cling to the dash and convulsing and and exploding like a microwave baker, and squirting over the glass.
So for me, owning K-Mart shares is like therapy. Revenge, too. But I am not a vengeful person. No. I'm above that. Somewhere. Somewhere atmospheric, unfortunately.
And to tell you the truth, the store doesn't affect me as badly as Oil Can Henry's, Bi-Mart, The Olive Garden, and any "food item" check-out registers (with handy-candies and Soap Opera magazines); or, say, someone coming to the back door.
"I Need to - GET OUT OF HERE!"
Sorry, that was me; in the line, right after MJ asked me if I was "okay." "Are you okay?" "Yurrrrrrrrrr........ If I.....could just..... loosen this tourniquet, off my neck....."
It's a peculiar thing in your life, when there's someone yelling in the check-out line; virtually screaming; and your wife is staring at you.
For a person wanting to disappear, vanish, you're certainly drawing a lot of attention. Whack-A-Mole. Non Pod-Person. Somebody's going to put their thumb on you, and squeeze you out of existence. Shoot you out of the bottom of the Crayon box. You clear crayon. Or some guys dressed in black with dark-purple scarves, are going to jump out from the back and grab you by the arms, and drag you through a slotted plastic curtain to the disposal area.
But you know what? When you're flipping out, outside, like ~ "out", "out-ed," ~ yelling ~ the scene makes more sense. It's more real; like a nightmare, where everyone is staring at you. It makes sense they're staring. Because that's what it is ~ a nightmare. And now at least you're begging to wake up.
Can you? Eh?
Can you?
Who are you?
What are you doing?
These are really important questions.
Heh heh heh heh.
Oh boy.
You sucker.
You idiot.
You jerk.
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Hey! K-Mart's up an 1/8th !!!
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When I was younger?
I NEVER thought I would go crazy.
Really.
Get hurt maybe, but never crazy.
You know, be eccentric maybe; but never crazy.
Be ill maybe, but never crazy.
It's not been "funny."
But I'm getting better now.
I could go to Martha Stewart Re-Hab.
I could do that.
I'll report back. |
