I walk down the streets and I see molds. Molds made of lead. Hard, seemingly unbreakable, lead. I wonder what an X mold looks like from the inside. Without all the fuss and the accessories. I have a lingering, nagging fantasy that I should stalk a mold and follow it home, peer through the bathroom exhaust and eyeball the unsuspecting victim while it bathes. Must be a nice scene. Because every other wanker is clinging to his mold for dear life. You could see it happening later, in the dark, the fumbling and the thrashing around with an undressed mold. That about all it comes down to with molds and their wankers.
I see skimpy skirts on display. Outrageous lingerie with ‘come fuck me’ on the price tag. And I wonder which mold has them on under all the armors. But then other yobs line up to watch and they make me uncomfortable, they seem on the verge of masturbating. So I walk away thinking that it must be tough to be a mold in this town.
A mold gave me the look the other day, couldn’t discern which look since only the double periscope was up there above sea level. The rest of the thing was well concealed. I wondered if the dismantling of a mold’s shield (once it’s berthed home) is similar to maintaining a submarine: you get the thing into the safety of the dry dock, and then you drain the basin of all water. Up comes the naked mold. And it’s yours.
You can’t communicate with a mold, though. At least not conventionally. A friend of mine who had just landed from the far west tried to talk a mold into giving him the directions downtown. It gave him the finger and mobilized the passers by. My friend ended up pinned down in his place, shaking hands and apologizing to them all. And when the procession was over, the mold pardoned and moved away. Must be a tenuous relationship between the molds and the passers by; it relies on them for protection and yet they’re by far its worst enemy. There’s the ogling, the verbal abuse and the stomach churning facetiousness. And I wonder if the mold always uses passers by as a metric for assessing others. Because, out of concern for the mold, I’m thinking that is setting the bar very low. The poor mold has a limited choice.
When the going is good, though, the mold may grace you with a smile. I guess you can tell by the little creased lines on the sides and the fluttering of the mascaraed lids . But then it could also be grimacing. I ventured unto the molds’ market today and looked out for the subtle signs. I got none, or maybe I did. It’s very hard to tell with molds, isn’t it? I imagine there’s a secret language going on there. With gestures and postures and audible approvals and disapprovals. It would have to be a precise economical and lithe language. With stringent conveyance of explosive messages. Not all molds wish to be left alone. Some of them do not mind the silent surveillance. I guess they enjoy it, to a point. And they respond with a blowtorch lashes of their own laser pointers. You’ve got to be up to the task of deciphering them for what they really are, after you shed away the layer upon layer of sanctimonious fastidiousness.
On the other hand (the clean, virtuous hand with which you do not masturbate), there’s an established mechanism for owning a mold. You pick up the phone and call some middle women of social stature. You go and inspect the mold, you get some other broad, generic descriptions through a third party. Then you have to make up your mind real quick. The mold guardian names a price, and you pay a part upfront, and leave some for the rainy day. Then the mold is yours.
Must be an interesting life style. Must be an exciting way of burning time. It will never fail not to impress you, to dare you to wrestle with it and change it.
I don’t really want a mold of my own. I just wonder if molds are happy. That’s all.