Lumoura
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My Wife Asks Why.
My Wife Asks Why.
My wife asks why I’m always doing stuff all the time.
And I guess, for me, I just want to do something significant. It’s how I tick.
I want to make something big and grand, something that expresses the big idea—
something that’s my idea of art and culture.
Obviously, I want to spread these things far and wide because I want them to matter.
And I know— the marketable thing would be to make one thing, then talk about that one thing for years.
That’s how ideas actually spread.
But I’m a bad marketer of my own work because I have so much I want to get out there.
I just need to blurt it all out. So I got a lot of volume.
And I need to somehow get it out— because there’s so much stuff and only so much time.
Yet I hope, with all of this, something will land, something will stick.
And somehow, it ends up mattering.
Photo credit: unknown
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When I look at the night skies, I see possibilities.
When I look at the night skies, I see possibilities.
It’s why I love space operas so much. Everything seems grander. Earth is fine. But other than what’s inside the Mariana Trench, everything here is explored.
But the Age of Discovery is still in space. There’s so much unseen that remains to be seen. And we’re still mapping each star and planet, and wondering what stories they tell.
In space, so much unknown remains to be known.
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I’ve seen horrors—
I’ve seen horrors—
Stark, raving—unhinged. Serrated, mangled, splattered. Minds losing it all, not coming back from the brink. Bodies bent and broken, convulsions, shaking, out of control.
Then stillness— quiet, nothingness, because what was is no longer.
And from this, I feel all the more it is better to live than not live.
Photo credit: unknown artist
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“Hey Chris, how do you feel about UFOs?
“Hey Chris, how do you feel about UFOs?”I’m a very literal person. Are there flying objects that are unidentified? I mean, the Earth is a big place, and there’s bound to be something in the air that’s unidentified. So what? What do you want me to do about that?Hey, a rock can be a UFO. Maybe somebody strapped a few firecrackers to a rock, and someone saw it and thought, “Hey, unidentified. Yay.” I’ve been hearing about UFOs my entire life—ever since Roswell, the original UFO craze. Most people today haven’t known a time when conspiracy nuts weren’t talking about them. I also kind of wish people would shut up about them, because, okay, UFOs exist, but so what? Where are they anyway? They seem to be staying out of the way, taking care of themselves. Since they don’t give a damn about me, I don’t give a damn about them.Sure, there’s always some tinfoil hat-wearing asshole who’d argue otherwise: “But you’re only saying that because you weren’t one of the abductees.” I don’t know anyone who’s been abducted—alien abductions have never been verified, so who gives a fucking damn? It’s the most nothing-burger topic ever.I realize the U.S. government has had hearings on these things—but why have they had hearings on this recently? Could it be to distract us? Maybe the real conspiracy theory about UFOs is that they’re always being trotted out to distract us from things that actually matter.And speaking of distractions, remember when everyone was rushing to Area 51 to figure out what was going on there, only for the U.S. military to warn that if you come too close, they’ll be shot? And then, just like that, everyone forgot about it?Hmm… seems suspicious.Photo credit: unknown artist@lumoura
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Every town has a spot. It serves ice cream, hot dogs—sometimes chili fries, though here in Canada, that tends to be poutine.
Every town has a spot. It serves ice cream, hot dogs—sometimes chili fries, though here in Canada, that tends to be poutine.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: that sounds like a fast-food place. And yes, it is. But it’s a subgenre I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t even know what to call these joints, but I know what you’re thinking—you’re probably thinking Dairy Queen. And you’d be right. Most of the time, these places are Dairy Queens. But sometimes, they’re not.
Sometimes, they have picnic benches out front. Sometimes, roller-skating teenage girls take your order, gliding up to your window, jotting it all down, then returning with a tray they perch by your door.
On Saturdays, you get the old muscle cars, engines revving, horsepower on display. Wait a little longer, and a younger crowd rolls in—the hot hatchbacks, the Ford Fiestas and Honda Civics. The ones who’ve watched a little too much Fast & Furious.
What I love about these places is the bizarre architecture—the kind you see nowhere else. Huge wraparound windows, buildings held up by thin little posts, lights blazing from every corner.
I never know what these places are called. I mean, yeah, fast food—but what do you call this subgenre?
The burgers always taste different. The ice cream is extra soft. And if you listen closely, you can almost hear the music—wow… wow…—echoing from the cars.
Photo credit: Thomas Jordan
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7-Eleven
7-Eleven
When I was a teenager, 7-Eleven was the most important spot in my town. It was practically my second home.
Almost daily, I made the trek— 30 minutes to walk there, 30 minutes to get back.
I’d go in, grab a chocolate bar, maybe a Slurpee, look at a few movies, pick up a few knickknacks.
But what mattered most was what was right outside.
Other teenagers, gossiping about goings-on, flirting with girls.
Folks would come by to peddle weed, and sometimes, right by the side, we’d get out a deck of cards or maybe a Game Boy, play and replay till sundown.
We’d play till that florescent 7-Eleven sign almost intermingled with the swoons of sunset, till the sky transformed— orange, then red, then darkness.
And when it got too cold, or we got hungry, we trekked back from whence we came.
Photo credit: Abby Graves
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Going up, up, up.
Going up, up, up.
And I’m feeling higher than a kite, taken away into to the sky, lost within the endless height.
Weightless, boundless, soaring free, higher still— gravity a weightless ghost.
Going up, up, up, Earth—a memory slight.
