The Subpoolular Siren's Song...

These people make me nervous (THESE people?!  Who the fuck are THESE people?  Am I THOSE people??!).  Living in fear, they are; no, I live in fear.  Nervousness is my reaction to their selves.  And who's fault is that? Well, not fault, but who's intention is that? (Mine, Yours? OURS?) 
My own?  No --> Nervousness is an involuntary response to a perceived threatening situation.  Developed as a survival mechanism to sense any possible danger (a threat is a threat)!
So what am I running from (afraid of)?  All of this is a piece of my life because it is a piece of this world.  I cannot reject it.  Nor do I have to fully accept it.  Who am I to judge it, reject it, or embrace it?  Am I an EYE?  Certainly not.  We're all the EYE.  We see, witness, and react --we have no other choice beyond the present.

If I choose to reject any experience because it is superficial or simply "not my scene" then I am just as judgmental as I perceive them to be (we ALL have perceptions of judgment, survival skill and natural means of categorization in the brain, whatever the hell that is). 

I can rebel rebel rebel rebel rebel "REBEL REBEL BITCH BITCH REBEL REBEL PARTY PARTY SEX SEX SEX AND DON'T FORGET THE VIOLENCE" (MM).  Or I can sit at the bottom of the pool and laugh.  Why should I not?  Laps of luxury will be what they are.  And I love to swim.


 - I thought about this at the bottom of the pool at the Beverly Hills hotel.  I was so upset.  Pissed to be there around these/those/(our) people, circling my body with their ojos.  The center of objectification is at the Beverly Hills hotel pool.  But Hot damn, it is interesting to witness.  Older housewives with cocktails whispering to each other with that heavy SSSsssssssss sounds coming from them that is a dead giveaway they're gossiping.  "Ssssssssshee sssssaid thaaatSSSSSHSHS?!"  Foxy foxy bad actresses dicking around with their fame and power, while they donate money to "some random children's charity" from an iPhone app.  Old men putting on their goggles underwater to watch the jaildickbaters "swim off" those fries while dented paper-towel roll women stared at my beer and veggie burger with bloody savage eyes.

(picture: Underwater Fantasy by Elena Kalis)

Ken-doll cabana boys moving shade onto rich rich oil wrinkled bodies.  But the most peculiar thing of all is that all the monkeys were faced inward, towards the center spactacle of the cage (the pool) and all of them were constantly looking around cocked heads, paranoid, at the possibility that there may be "SOMEONE" there.  WHO?!  Are THEY there?  How can they be there when they're off looking for SOMEONE else to get there?

The point is, just because someone lives a different lifestyle, whether it's luxurious, shitty, fucked up, dangerous, gaudy, cheesy, utterly insane, or just peaceful--we never know what they may be whispering to themselves when they sit at the bottom of pools.

And the place had underwater music.  No music above water.  Just under it, where it kinda stings to open your eyes.  But hot damn, is it lovely.