The Macroman

Prehistoric, as dated as the ramjet, oranges and blues spewing forth from magma fissures in the warm crust of the earth. Thoughts like the ones I have every morning lying down, facing up, curling around myself in my stuffy room. The walls are cream, rabbit white and beige, and promote dreams. I dreamt that I was Macro Man. A superhero so possessed of sadness and inner turmoil that he would escape to the very round corners of our universe, and in so doing purge himself of any preoccupations about the importance of his own life. Macro Man wore a dubious red and blue outfit with cape. He didn’t even cover his face, which was meant to be my own. That’s what I like about dreaming, the disconnection of time and matter, the disobedience of possibility and impossibility. It was me at the beginning, my face, my flat arse and perky man breasts, but later on and further from our Earth, bigger muscled and less buxom.
I had nowhere to be that morning. I work the night shift at an ex-service man’s club. Stories about the atrocities of war peaked my interest, but confabulation and old-age go hand in hand. Most of these men’s only actual service was that to some heartless corporate fat cat, condom salesmen and council workers. I served cocaine addicts, whores, single mothers, obstinate drunks, under-aged children with fake IDs and trades people. Obdurate people the lot of them, unbending. Most people are stone, strong and brittle and I’m no different. They say John Howard is a labor man, the white lines on the road are made of asbestos, cricket is a gentleman’s sport, beer doesn’t cause gout, children should be beaten into submission, and foreigners steal jobs. I turned the other cheek in my soft bed, facing the rabbit white wall. Without moving I was able to creep a little closer to the black behind my eyes.
When I rose.
The news today is grim. Two children drowned by their mother in a car. The concerned journalist in a smart casual suit seemed to give a shit, so I tried. What would Macro Man eat for breakfast? I ate franchised cereal, with pasteurised milk, but the thought of dead children made me puke colours I hadn’t eaten that day. Tragedy like this is the garrotte wire around my neck. I’ve worn it so long its just jewellery.
The time between events is quicker, like light is between planets. So it was time to work again and again. Getting dressed is a chore, ironing is a chore, driving is a chore especially on an empty tank.
I’m not clinically depressed, or sad. I’m not angry with anyone. I have no blame to share amongst you. I’m just Macro Man, things aren’t as important from far away. I could really get used to it.

Journal Comments

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