Giant's Walk (Or Walk Of The Giant's)
For the time being, I have been playing the starring role in my own escapade of idleness in which I am able to recognize that eventually, my heart will one day soon yearn for days like these (however granular). The in-between days, where my calendar is clear, and the only things that I am concerned with are smoking and having sex and playing outside . . . It was time for a walk of epic proportions. I had just delivered my vehicle at the mechanic’s to be serviced and set out on what I am calling the Giant’s Walk, or The Walk Of Giant’s. I haven’t decided yet on the name.
Just about all of the major topography were at present: a paved road, a dirt road, a track of clay, a grassy field, a stone path, a brick path, a wooded path of pine straw, a path of wood chips, a path of pebbles, a concrete sidewalk, and even a beach of sand. It had been such a morning where I had felt so wakeful, that I began seeing everything in cursive. My footwork was so fanciful, that during one moment while strolling amongst the grassy field, my shadow that at one point had been sharply etched and attached to my feet I saw beginning to walk in the opposite direction into the forest and waving goodbye.
Ungroundable and away from the Earth I floated past the bicycle riders and motorists who were buzzing and screeching and bellowing before me as I brushed shoulders with the passerby of which I had deduced were nothing more than cheats, criminals, and dirty murderers, even my brother whom I ran into while out pamphleteering tried to assuage me that the “End is not nigh! It is now!”
I slipped past the vestige of the old mall and instantly I become flooded with memories — I made a pledge to myself as a young man that I would one day repurpose that mall into a shinto shrine and live off of Sbarro pizza and samples from Panda Express until my terrestrial life here on Earth was over. I pledged to one day curate a gallery of Zumiez stickers and go skateboarding down the escalator and to cap the day off with a swim in the wishing well while bathing in incense and coins before it was time for bed. I pledged to play hide and seek with the angels of my friends and T9 text my family from the afterlife when it was time to pick me up as I had been fortified with Mrs. Field’s cookies and was seriously beginning to require some of mom’s cooking. I pledged to run along the tables in the food court wearing the largest suit that Macy’s had available and as many baseball caps from Lids as I could balance and become lifted up and away by the pigeons roosting in the glass ceiling above and carry me towards whichever department store needed pillaging. I pledged to pierce my ears every morning and every night at Claire’s and to create the swaggiest wallet chain out of trinkets from Hot Topic and to fashion it into Morningstar. I pledged to watch DVD’s at FYE and pretend that I was a different character after every film and eat Big League Chew while hitting baseballs over the fountain. It is only then that I would retire amongst my castle fort of books that I would have erected at the Barne’s & Noble, encircled by a great green moat of wheatgrass smoothies from Jamba Juice, while the hundreds of rabbits from the pet shop would hop around mercilessly amongst the mall at my stead as my dreamworld army. Oh, how I wanted to be left there alone to rot in eternal peace!
/tumblr_41db2583742c8e733190d3a95bcb4178_bd0c3936_2048.jpg)
the-noble-r0t:Ethereal
I paid a visit to Cindy, the Postmaster General, who always waxes poetic based on whatever it is that I tell her I’m mailing. This week: a mangled camera that someone from Dallas is hoping to repair, and I say to her to throw a few extra FRAGILE stickers on there while she’s at it. She goes on to tell me that her husband growing up had been into medieval fantasy and that everyone for his birthday had misunderstood and thought that he was obsessed with unicorns. I was taken aback by this, as the newspaper that I had used inside the mailer happened to be a two page advert from the New York Times depicting a unicorn crossing the street. It was always something with her . . . I headed back further into town to check in with the library director, Bobbi, who tells me that my books still haven’t arrived yet, and then happened to run into a newly wedded couple whom I remember marrying as the officiant just last month the next block over. I stumbled upon a mailbox along the lake path that contained a guestbook, which I signed my signature in. I even saw a woman along the shoreline eating a lollipop with her cunt, getting closer to the center of the Tootsie Pop with every pass, ever and evermore, in a manner of which I never thought possible. Her clitoris looked like an axolotl in cold blood, in acetyl vaginal . . . Excelsior! I threw a tenspot at her as I passed by.
My sojourn had been so sensorial, that it was easy to imagine myself continuing to walk until I had reached total exhaustion. I shared three and a half cigarettes with a man wearing dark glasses behind the Thai restaurant and reinvented myself anew as a world renowned chef, despite earlier that day starting a kitchen fire while cooking ramen. The portrait of the Kitchen God — a talisman that is said to protect one’s hearth for 1,000 days — hung above my stove for naught.
I truly felt that in my heart of hearts and beneath my feet, that the sidewalk would have simply never stopped as long as I just kept walking. The mise en place of mind that one experiences on excursions such as these are able to provide such a clean feeling that one feels immediately reborn and freshly rinsed in azure. Even Nietzsche said that the most valuable thoughts occur while walking, to which I can attest. Every step I killed my old self and every step I became resurrected. Nearer were the days which I lusted after in anticipation of the sun-drunk afternoons spent mixing cheladas with seawater in an arm chair alongside the ocean, asleep on an inner tube floating towards the horizon along a vermillion passage of glorious harbor . . . I could feel it in my bones.
Finally, I arrive back on my street and am halfway up the driveway when I get a call from Slacker, the receptionist who works at the mechanic: “Hey [redacted]! They just finished working on your car. Come by and pick it up by as soon as you can!” I turned around and retraced my steps. I always retraced my steps.