Forward, Forward, Forward…

I walk past each civilian, wrinkling my nose with severe disgust. How do they step foot outside heir homes wearing that? These girls, with their so-called high fashion, believe that they are the most current and innovative of the hour. Have they researched their already out-of-date clothes yet? No, I think not. I can imagine the shudders that would run down the spines of French designers if they saw these women. They are so obsolete; their clothes must move forward, forward, forward! They must exhibit an endless progression! Each hour, each minute, each second, these ladies should be running into stores, spending their hard earned cash on the newest trends. Only then can they stay current with the world of fashion. Alas, this is impossible! Why do they even bother with clothing if they cannot continuously progress? If only we could disregard our clothing and be free… but this thought, this idea I have concocted, it is so primitive, it makes me shudder again, and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

To get rid of this taste, I decide, I will change direction and progress to the nearest Starbucks. Now, this is a company I can support. True, their menu remains static, and it takes the manufactures much too long to invent new coffee flavors and coffee-like spin offs, yet there is a genuine attempt at progress in Starbucks’ company that makes them acceptable to me.

It is Christmas time. On the first of November, Starbucks changed the entirety of each store in its vast chain to sport Christmas music sung by new age singers and up and coming pop artists. Thankfully they choose not to sell that crap from old-time singers like Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby. I wait impatiently in line to get my gingersnap latte. It is a new flavor that the public gets to try out. The decision to keep this new flavor, to allow Starbucks to progress and continue to make new lattes, rests in the hands of the very civilians I abhor. The people in this city don’t understand Futurism in its true form. They believe that they can move forward at a slow, gradual pace. Society believes that they can continue to accept old artworks long after being exposed to the newest and most modern of art. This is blasphemy! Upon viewing the most innovative forms of art, I instantly disregard the old. Even more contemporary artists like Warhol and O’Keeffe are filth. Their art has already been repeated and reused thousands of times by now. There is nothing new about printing soup cans or painting flowers. It angers me that people would continue to reproduce these artworks that bring down the very workings of our…

“Excuse me.”

I jolt back to this primitive reality that I am regrettably a part of. I look behind me, and there stands a woman about five feet tall whose face oddly resembles experimental video artist Miranda July. She is wearing last year’s Ugg boots, black cable knit leggings, a green jumper, and a black mod-style cropped pea coat that reflects the tacky and horrendously outdated fashion of the 60’s. This is another reason why fashion is futile. Not only can society never keep up with it, but fashion itself continuously repeats previous eras. The things that women are wearing now were fashionable 20 or 40 or 80 years ago. I glare at her failed attempt to look modern chic. “What,” I snap incisively.

The short woman suddenly looks threatened. She cautiously points to a piping hot gingersnap latte that sits on the Starbucks counter. The man working looks peeved, and so does the long line of civilians behind me. “The barista served you your coffee a while ago.”

I grab my latte hasitly and storm off, not saying a word to the woman. I stalk past the line of people, each one of them looking at me with contempt as I exit the Starbucks and continue on my way. It isn’t unusual for me to disconnect with society as I engulf myself in my own thoughts. My behavior is not something these simpletons can understand. Here they are standing in line worrying about their coffee and their mindless agendas for the day, while I am continuously thinking about the future, continuously walking forward. These people are stuck in the past, some even in the present. They will never get anywhere if they do not look ahead.

My journey downtown is taking me to my recording studio. I hate to use such outdated technology to keep my music going, but this capitalistic society robs me of any practical way to continuously update my recording equipment. My last update occurred three months ago, and already I am disgusted by the poor and outdated quality sound that my studio produces. I am a musician—yes, this idea seems unlikely, as I have been known to disregard art as a trivial and repetitive waste of time, but fear not. My music is revolutionary. I believe that I can make music out of anything. When I discovered noise sound, I adopted the theory and manifested it into my own creation. There are musicians like Bernhard Loibner whom believe that they understand noise sound and that their music is truly a groundbreaking invention. I scoff at this! My music does not only takes the primitive sounds of nature and mold them into new, never before experienced music, but I also create my own instruments, my own machines, and produce sounds and whirrs that no human has ever conceived. There is a constant mechanical sound in my music, and it is a mechanical sound that has the heart of wartime, and the mentality of chaos, and a mindset that only thinks forward, forward, forward!

As I reach my studio, I do not hesitate to take the elevator up to the fifteenth floor of the building. I forced my way to the top of this skyscraper, so that as I record I can look down upon the peons in the world below me and never forget that it is I who is at the top of this pathetic universe. The elevator opens, and I trudge into my room, only to be struck with horror as I see what is not my studio, but rather a loud, bright, colorful mess. The colors make no sense. There is a wall painted bright red, and across form it one that is half-painted purple with orange and gold hand prints all over it. The floor is covered with confetti in primary colors. There are hot pink and lime green splatters of paint on the ceiling. Each color clashes with the next, creating no focus, no pattern, no reason to the room. There is a stench of vanilla in the room, fused with litchi, rubber, nicotine, and peanut butter. It is a stench that creates chaos, and not the chaos of an overthrown government or a revolution. It is the chaos of a mind that has no rationale.

Something brushes past my leg, nearly knocking me backwards. I look down to see a pig running around the room frantically, leaving tracks behind. His feet have been dipped in paint, scarring the ground with eggplant colored footprints. There is a hat upon the pig’s head, with long, long, long peacock feathers that reach the ground, smearing the footprints and leaving a feather or two in his wake, glued to the floor by the sticky mess. Before I can even comprehend why there is a pig in my studio, I cry in alarm as sharp talons sink into my shoulder. I look in terror to see that a scarlet macaw preening her primary colored feathers while using me as a perch. These birds are barely acceptable to me; unlike the pig that has been domesticated and used as a slave to us humans and our primitive forms of slaughtering, macaws are highly intelligent. They have the vocal chords to learn the human tongue. They can learn simple commands. Macaws are birds that keep moving forward with every word they learn, every trick they master. This macaw opens her beak wide and squawks out a sound—no. She squawks out a sentence…

“Squaa! They are coming! Squaaa! They are coming! The music is coming! Squaaaaaa!”

Then comes the screeching noise. It is not a noise that is new or unique. It does not create sounds that no man has heard before. It is rather the combination of primitive noises, of squeals and grunts and groans and shrieks and yelps and barks piercing my eardrums. It has a sound that can only be tribal, as if it were the beginning of a nation, and the people—oh the primitive cretins—it’s as if they cannot even imagine the future. It is as if they have given up on moving forward, and they only want to remain in their beginning stages. Their screeching will never develop into words, or sounds. They will never create morphemes. They will not even create phonemes. This sound, this shrieking, this abomination of sound… it is unexplainable. It is unreasonable. It is unfathomable. It is… it is… it is…

It is dada.

WHO DESTROYED THE STUDIO?

WHO DESTROYED THE ANIMALS?

WHO DESTROYED THE MUSIC?

WHO DESTROYED FUTURISM?

WHO DESTROYED THE STORY?

IT IS DADA

DADA

DADA

DADA DADA

DADA DADA DADA

IT IS DADA!!