An Interview with Sedona Lynn - Page 3

Conditions are right for an ever promised and righteous breakthrough. I speak with 7 different digital assistants and hear the automated recordings for 5 different issues at 14 different departments before I finally give up and send out 15 resumes in varying industries on Indeed. It’s Bret Hart’s 69th birthday and as a kid, I thought there was no way of escaping the Sharp Shooter without cheating, distracting the referee, or taking out the Hitman before he got the best of you. 

Bret Hart hasn’t wrestled since 1999, when Bill Goldberg caught him with a shoot kick that caused later seizures and ended his career… 

What if?, I think.

What if I have to go back there? What if I can’t make it here? What if I need to go back there?

What if I go there?

I’m not going anywhere I haven’t already been, and looking back at the antics of my younger years and their contribution to my state of perpetual confusion, I can’t help but laugh about all the “discomfort” I put myself through. Having read TP’s annotations on subjects like thermodynamics, frailty, and American consumerism, I interpret things much slower now, I inundate myself to believe that what is in front of me is easily found to be guilty as charged, a heat-death or isolated episode of one breath too long against the deaf side of an empty pillow; a well formed hypothesis but the cold reality of the situation all the same. If I’m fortunate not to lose consciousness, I’m keenly aware of where I was before everything went blank and I had to start over again.

When LL and I met up with Sedona and her husband in LA, late 2010’s perhaps, I was fired upon arrival from my pizza cook job at Slice Parlour or Pizza Pit or Wisepies, whomever the fuck had the fortune of dealing with that verbose, drug-addled automaton. I processed information in abnormal loops between the cortex and thalamus, through channels leading toward a reductive fallacy, a shrinking I still can’t see but feel all the same. I had a bad teenth (1/16th) of cocaine I’d bought from a coworker and maybe it was divine intervention that I spent the majority of that trip with bad diarrhea and crying in our private room at the Banana Bungalow.

There was no foresight involved, no vacated and timely assessment of how that was an end to an era; that we, the 4 of us, the world as a whole, would find our carefree mirrorboxes soon shattered, a boulder heaved from the underground and encased in a shallow straw leading in separate paths and elsewhere, with slight delays to be expected.