into head cavity by way of
whatever means, that this is
not a play by Edward Albee.
You are living socially, awkward
and loud. “Oh, lord, be you bene-
volent, malevolent or irrelevant,
I want no drama, nothing more to
diminish respect. No more begging.”
Then it’s to bed. I’m on the top
bunk, so nothing unusual because I
am a top, with eyes on the ceiling,
through which the moon is pregnant
and orange; gorgeous. I know
because I ran into a tree earlier
attempting to ponder the pregnant
moon while simultaneously walking.
Was it because I am a man? Or just plain
clumsy? Don’t answer at 9:30pm, after
I snap at the moon because I bumped into
a tree. The tree, unpredictably, painfully,
was in the throes of a winter snap. Is this my
home? Or is it somebody else’s habitat?
It is the future of habitats, and
Bruce Willis finds himself in the
grips of a robotic and foreign
actress who dares to steal every
scene from Bruce. She chews
through the movie with a big wig
that is reminiscent of a particular
decade. And of robotic women, with
whom it is apparently impossible
not to fall madly in love. I know
that I did. Fall, that is.
I am terribly clumsy.
And while I rarely look back, unless
in order to view and critique the
now; to readjust, to remap. I have
always loved the period wig atop
her robotic and unsurprisingly
magical head. And Bruce, moonlit
Bruce, is no exception. Like many
who have come before him, he is
motivated to save the world simply
because of this love. Saving the
world for love sounds aspirational.
But it also seems like a terribly
cloudy, illogical thing to do.
