trash

Final Report and Review Log of Science Team Executive Lieutenant Dr. Lana VanDavis - June, 2035 - by D.M. Jerman

A week from the green light our team set off in the Santa Volta IV (SV-IV), the largest of four modest ex-navy vessels, for three days off the coast of the Azores to get to the North Atlantic Gyre. The Santa Volta fleet had their hulls painted thick with POP neutralizer. Active polymer disruption that made the minute plastic decomp easy to pass in digestive systems. This was important because over the course of the next six weeks we intended to oversee the "baking process" of this massive island of plastic from a free-floating swirling mush pile into a dense land mass capable of supporting infrastructure and using as a way station for ocean preservation and wildlife rescue. We couldn't beat it, so we were in the process of joining it.

About two months prior a preliminary crew set out for the berg of trash on a projected week-long mission armed with sonic deterrant, airplane cable and depth coagulant in order to float as much detritus as possible at the surface while keeping the sealife population at a safe distance. All had gone accordingly, and now we were operational as engineering set to install the cage perimeter and peripheral entrapment units which would more solidly collect any garbage that came within 8 to 10 meters. If this worked, we surmised, the Santa Volta fleet could very well quadruple and become a household name overnight.

But things turned out a little differently.

Functionality within mission and crew of SV-IV for the first week had proceeded as planned. We then discovered that we were the first humans to "come down" with what was later simply termed “Gyre Syndrome." On a small recreational fishing expedition lead by Captain Max Goldwell, we discovered more advanced stages of Gyre Syndrome had already occurred in some populations of larger sealife- turtles and whales specifically. It sounds like a terrible thing, but instead it managed to be an extraordinary physiological phenomena tantamount to a mid-21st century evolution. The last collusion in the name of the pursuit of perfection between man and nature.

Very quickly we understood that we were to remain unafraid of 'Gyre Syndrome' and its effects, namely because it made us happier. I believe this is so for a few key reasons.

Firstly- we were becoming maps- semi-holographic mosaics. Broad spectrum reflectivity at the subcutaneous level. Our temporary time-susceptible physical make up was being replaced with something we then understood to be much more beautiful. We began to notice that the searing days and bitter cold nights on the SV-IV were more tolerable and required less protection. When exposing ourselves to these drastic elements, we soon required only POP neutralizer boots, and the tools our daily workload required.

Finally- as a team we felt even more impelled to continue the tasks relevant to our ahead-of-schedule mission. To collect the Gyre in the name of creating a living landmass. To date, several additional expeditions have been made by our peers to the Gyre's new centralized lookout and command post. Our bodies have begun to take on the saturated and reflective grey-pinks and blue-greens which currently indicate to us that the landmass is becoming viable as organic food.

In consideration of all of the above, it is now our firm assertion that the sinking of the Santa Volta fleet has been the right decision.

We have become the Gyre, and it is our home now.

Missive from the Trash Palace: A Guttermemoir. by D.M. Jerman

It’s Thursday and I'm raging it up at the Trash Palace. The place is like the inside of a plank-and-iron cart, the kind Mexican metal-divers drive up and down alleys with creaky low tires.

My roommate is a horder and shoots slightly more TV than coke.

Here, there’s every thing you could need or want provided you can find it. I need a shower. It’s around here somewhere…

One beer in on a day off almost leaving my phone in the park. Snoozing and sneezing under the sun.

Just discovered the girl who moved in up top is leaving dog poo in the backyard bin under the back stairs. No wonder it smells worse out here than ever.

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Trash Palace's air conditioners and other profligate electronics are silent in the wave of unseasonable, unreasonably beautiful indian summer just so hot to keep getting its sweet weather all over my moan and magic. The rush on rich substance can leave you homeless inside.

I wish someone might call. I know I'll see a different "him" this weekend. But I'm kinda lonely.

Picked up a cold from this same old new lover too, who is maybe going to cross my path at a party this weekend. He is auditioning friends like he auditions girlfriends and it is all the brilliant trash of gossip.

Anyway I've already got my get up planned and what I'm gonna take. Camera and dessert and my haute ass. That'll teach 'em. Just no excessive sneezing or dragging along back to bed anyone who can't get behind a filthy house.

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Meanwhile I work out what I hope isn't a chest cold and play drums and go to readings and keep seeking hot jams and painting my nails and wondering if I want to go dancing with the weekend with its shrinking moon in tow…

Perverse recollection of a dream climbing up and down buildings, being followed, being watched.

Showing the sycophant from the past about a town rotted thru with old buildings. Always in search of a place to live.

I pick up rubber bands and forget to take photos in the fresh morning light. The train sparks toward dawn over the lush park, and it occurs to me a new bubble wand is in order. I could wear the furry coat again. Do new-ish jeans come first?

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At the moment, nothing is really needed. We are all moving soon. Out, away, beyond. Breathing into the blissful minute of concentration tearing free of sunrise. A long walk is a healthy psychic shit. No way you can future any better than I can. Or maybe you can…

What I mean is nothing would be better than getting back yesterday. Keeping the blood flow instead of wearing a bra.

How about the wisdom in a pile of bad habits. The reduced emotive capacity of bad weather. Snow? Snow is a promise. But rain. Rain is a gag. The best bad excuse. A poor joke played while you're on a bike ride. A rude warning.

Then rain is a time-slower and a grit washer. A tight muscle memory sick-day reflex inducer. Unapologetic, and total hell on pizza delivery guys everywhere. People with lamps and chores survive it. People with train stations and paper cups drink it. Acid tears that taste like high school regrets. Leaks. Spring-chewed drip-holes of itself. Rough grooves made rougher. The roof forced to stand for truth, justice, and American warps.

 

Previously published in the online/print 'zine SKIDMARK.

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