PaperPlaneNoPilot
by Tangleleggs MajesticPatty Hearst would have been a boring, spoiled, West Coast floatie if divine might hadn't stepped in and slapped her fingerprints around a bit. Over night our doll was blessed for ever there after; a book deal, a tv show, she could have opted for a sit com if Ford had stayed in office just another year. But, alone and alas, hindsight is a scrim stroker's hand job. She did alright for herself; that girl did just fine.
Who but those girt with the earth born rust of pure Gift could reach through the bevels of their own self-loathing and class guilt, their own cultural disgust and 13th hour belief that all decency had up and dry fucked its way right out the history books, and look back, just in time, to finger through the mud of this emerging culture, and manifest, red faced with veins pulsing life, a back alley novella of social vertigo so unabashed, required and poignant that it could only be written in the streets with the names of children, like the a hand-me-down, front-line-art. Who but You must love our sweet, undaunted, little girl Hearst?
Heir to a multi-billion dollar media dynasty she had nothing to lose but the fleeting chance at this monumental irony of her life, in her time, in its one and only branding erudition, where all harmonics slip together to create pristine image and razor thin sound. To the average unaware this kind of eloquence could have come and gone a dozen times without water or sweat, but, to those with proper height, one gondola ride through the pendulum is all that's required to immerse inside a culture's fears and its ignominated idiocy; to ride that monosyllabic pony on into glory that is Poem in its only redeemable form.
Imagine the length she must have felt when it hit her: it was She inside that glass ball, slightly bending and breaking from bits of acrylic snow as eye sight drift to create endless and predictable loops for that plastic rider who fell to the muffled sound of "Rosebud"; an entire generation caste in celluloid even before it could be cast in the wombs of its mothers. The back seats and cheap wine had already been set to motion as the curtains dropped and the credits rolled over for more. The mushroom razed and the gaffer stood by laughing as those numbers dropped from 7 to 6 to 5, 4, 3, 2 1 - zero and sound became color and made a lifetime from light and Nothing would be the mortar to grind a whole corrupted continent of mean spirited apes to essence before its bearers could bourne.
And, bless her heart, for she knew the films plot was far too noir bullshit drab, too Anglo predictable, and too blushingly old guard to hold weight in a world made from newspaper, a world already creased by Charlie Manson's own brand of wink and ribbing. Perhaps folks the age of Papa Hearst might've been taken by a plot as to assume death could drive a man to interest, but by god our girly Hearst and her whole tapestried generation knew much, much better. Old sweet Saint Peppermint Patty Hearst, she saw her fate in the films of yesterday and, from blind lust alone, recast a post-psychedelic hue to parents' nightmares only Pynchon, in his most weeping of moments, could have dreamt and let drip onto paper. Let's take that brat and make her malitia!
Tangleleggs Majestic is a polytheistic sharp shooter, a mackerel of Anglo descent, a hand irony forged from years under the hood of a better day. He lives modestly amongst sea creatures and hypocrites, but saves no resentment for those without gill to call their own. On those crisp mornings, when song birds color the air and car horns ballast a dissonant co-pay on world without end, Tangleleggs notices a shiver and saves it for you.