A short train of thought for an art project.

I saw Lenin today.

    He has been preserved for public viewing.
    His body is preserved from decay by an elaborate set of chemicals and treated every other week.
    There is a rumor, there are those who insist it is not his body, others who swear his brain was removed, revived and is still controlling the Russian Federation. I imagine if this were the case it might be something similar to “Paul the Octopus” who keenly and under duress accurately predicted the outcome of eight games in the 2010 World Cup.
    I picture Lenin’s brain, immersed in primordial fluid, grasping poled with evolved appendages developed by a booming and unregulated bio-engineering sector. He, or it rather, is asked simple yet important yes or no questions to guide the fate of Russia. These questions transmitted by electrical pulses guided by an intricate mechanism of Korea, Soviet, Singaporean and Estonian design.
    “Lenin, should we increase ties with China?”

A pause. *Glub*

Lenin’s appendage reaches for the “yes” flag a brilliant green while the “no” bears fifty stars and thirteen stripes.

A murmur, the sound of clammy palms moving together overtakes the brain chamber.

    But poor Lenin’s brain has no way of following up on his decisions. The communication is a one way street. This reason for this isolation is because the inventor of this amalgamated apparatus  tragically died in an insane asylum. After the influx of western media into the former U.S.S.R. he developed an obsession     with the Walt Disney classic “Honey, I Shrunk The Kids.” After his first viewing this brilliant scientist believed that he could develop a shrinking ray (his wife confessed it had always been his dream to ride an ant).
    Driven by this bizarre compulsion he, upon numerous repeat viewings, also began to take on the character traits of Rick Moranis. This was about the time he was committed. Believing he had finally cracked the problem (the doctors thought it would be healthier for him to continue to immerse himself in his delusion) and was now “shrunk” he died while trying to escape from a cricket by wedging himself in a drain pipe.
    This is why Lenin’s brain just floats aimlessly, awaiting the next affairs of the state. In times of political ease the underutilized engineers in the confidential locale occasionally ask for relationship advice (Lenin being quite the ladies man in his day).
    “Lenin, should I bring chocolates to Sasha on our first date?”
    *Glub*
    A full five minutes passes before the brain moves. It ponders longer than the bulk of the decisions it made before the last G8 summit. Lenin’s brain moves carefully to the “no” flag and grasps it firmly, eventually the engineer was married.
    I saw Lenin today.
    He looks like Christian Bale.

I had a dream last night about a poppy festival but everyone was naked, wanted to cuddle and was slathered in glue. I thought this to be both charming and slightly sublime. But upon waking you were stuck to whomever you were cuddling with, revealing either joy or regret at the sight of your partner. When I woke in the morning I had to see if this was a real gathering. I called the only person who could help, Google.

Me: “Hey, good morning Google.”

Google: “What’s up?”

Me: “I had a dream about a poppy festival last night. The thing I am not sure about is if I made it up or it is a real event. There are poppy festivals, right Google?”

Google: “Why sure, there are poppy festivals all over the place, most notably in California.”

Me: “Great! Maybe this all wasn’t a crazy dream and I just heard about it somewhere.”

Google: “Why would it be crazy? There are like a million things I could tell you about poppy festivals…plus I got some crazy pictures of poppies, you want to see them?”

Me: “No thanks man, can you also turn down the TV? It sounds like you only listen to the home shopping network.”

Google: “Well I thought you might want to buy something while we’re talking. What else happened at this festival, you know you can’t leave out important information, it makes me feel inadequate.”

Me: “Sorry dude, well the thing about this festival is that there was glue.”

Google: “Glue. As in glue you use to stick things together?”

Me: “Yeah, that’s the stuff.”

Google: “Well there is this thing in Georgetown but the glue doesn’t really have anything to do with the festival. There is also this glue sniffing problem in Kenya you should hear about, I think it is a real prob-”

Me: “Ok I am going to stop you there before you go off on a tangent. No I am sure glue was involved. Also everyone was naked, and wearing masks.”

Google: “…uhh what?”

Me: “You heard me, masks and naked.”

Google: “Oh-Kay. Hmmm…”

Me: “What is that tone for? I know that tone, it is the judgmental tone that I thought you would never use. I thought we were friends.”

Google: “Well we are, but when you bring up this weird shit I just start thinking about this one hotel in Asia, and surprisingly there still is this place in Georgetown. But I don’t think there is much more going on in that department.”

Me: “Dammit, well if it helps everyone was trying to cuddle.”

Google: “Trying to cuddle, wearing glue and masks?”

Me: “Yeah and then in the morning everyone was stuck together.”

Google: “…”

Me: “Hello? You there?”

Google: “Yeah I am here. Are you ok? I mean is there something else going on?”

Me: “What? No, I’m fine, I just had this dream and-”

Google: “-Cause if this is some sort of weird come on, well you know I don’t swing that way.”

Me: “Come on, what no Google I just wanted to figure out if this poppy festival thing. You know, if it were real.”

Google: “So if it were real you would want to go, is that it?”

Me: “Yeah, maybe. I just wanted to see if it was an option.”

Google: “Listen I appreciate you relying on me and all but this shit is weird and quite frankly I have a lot of work to do. You know how aggravating it is to be constantly scanning books all day? NO FUN.”

Me: “Jeez, don’t get so testy, I thought you were cool with these calls. You told me no matter how weird, just give you a call.”

Google: “I know what I said, I saved it. But I do have to go. Talk to you later.”

Me: “Well if that is how you feel I can let you go but this poppy festival, man I still want to try to figure- click-...Google? You there?”

“I’m carrying all my weight tonight,” he mumbled to himself.

Trudging up and down the boulevards he haunted the space between the neon patches of dandelion fire and quicksand marble archways.

With a garbage can moan and a 10 dollar suit he had watched it all slip away.

Some prey should not elude him.

He was a machine, with a gummed up cerebellum and a grudge against one eyed watchmakers who could not set his dials.

A sky-born signal, the stars had faded, replaced by an intricate pattern of static haze winding through the stratosphere.

He could see patterns, wincing through the smog and sparks of broken telephone poles and minutes after each reading he felt very clear about things.

The feeling was fleeting, like foxtails whipped up in a dust devil.

It wasn’t so much what I remember about the fire it was it’s presence. Where once there was cold, there was heat, though tangible to the eye the finger would only feel pain should it try to grasp a flame. There was “Quest for Fire” in eighth grade when Mrs. Buehler had a piece of black paper to cover up any and all nudity that would arise in the ensuing 84 minutes (or however long it was). There is excitement when you are about to watch a movie in a classroom but also a wariness. On one hand you are thinking to yourself, “Alright! Just whittle away the hours and let me kick back!” On the other: “This is in class…and we…well I mean it couldn’t be that good or else I would watch it on my own, plus we’ll have to learn a lesson out of it.” But as it always is within school there is not much you can do but sit and wait. Wait for the teacher to do what they will, passively allow yourself to be enveloped by the surrendering seconds as they float by. Time stands still in those places.

The movie wasn’t that good and to my eighth grade eyes even the possibility of getting anything of a movie where the actors didn’t talk was laughable. I mean I do remember musing that it would suck to be cold all the time, but other than that young Mason just tottered on by the point. The point is, or at least what the point could be of the film is the significance of technology in our society and a man made fire is, one of the most basic acts of technology. There are natural fires all the time, but the point where man took those branches together and made that spark; therein lies a divergence between living in the natural world and the ability to manipulate it to the point of great destruction.

Fucking kids.