2004-07-08 - 10:32 a.m.
Fahrenheit left me in an abject and sobbing heap, face and hands buried together as American soldiers tell me that all it takes to kill innocent Iraquis is an inspiring soundtrack. A mother who once took pride in the willingness of her children to 'serve' is near collapse on the white house lawn because she knows now that his death was needless, and that her son spent his last as an expendable pawn. A woman amidst the remains of her home and ruins of loved ones demands to know where her god is now? These are the sorts of presentments that I don't know how to blow away and best. I don't know how to make that small enough to internalize, I don't know how to make it anything other than a giant sobbing monster, inherent human flaw that has manifested itself in the form of an indomitable elephantine brute, a looming beast. My feelings afterwards were discordant, I thought initially that if there were any good reason to kill myself, it was this: as my formal resignation. And then I wanted ice cream, and then I wanted to make out with somebody, and then I wanted to buy hair care products, and so now I don't know what to do. I feel sick in my pits, and I don't know how a person is supposed to recover?
Like a demented sign from above, an old man with a striking hat has just left the building. I examined the hat for a good while in my hands, with his permission. It is a collage, covering the history of the nuclear bomb. Skeletons in puffy paint, riding a rocket bomb labeled "Little Boy", signifigant years in the history of explosives, The phrase, "I am become death" emblazoned in three dimensional paint pen on the adjustor tab, the whole affair covered with a translucent glitter craft paint, shellaced, busy with bomb paraphanalia, elaborate mushroom clouds in three shades of puff paint, 'painted straight from a picture'.
Bomb Head is what he calls himself.