Surprisingly, or rather incredibly, I did not have to blame myself this morning for wetting my bed – it just happened. Naturally, the consequences were always relevant. However, incoherent ignorance kept itself in-play for long enough to allow my conscious to regain temporary control and, once all of this sustenance shenanigan took flight – into God knows what dimension – I got my slippers and went to the washroom.
On my way to the release, I noticed something uncomfortable about my left arm. It wasn’t that I have never seen this appendage before, but just that it stuck out like a monster peeking from under my bed. On purpose, I forgot all about this nonsense and continued my journey. I had to get a smaller apartment, I reminded myself, while shuffling my feet without realizing it. Soon, I got tired and did not feel like visiting that repository of sad memories. I turned around. Was it really already noon? It really is incredible how life ticks and tacks and all I have to show for it is a careless shuffle that, if you were to ask me yesterday, is really nothing but an attempt at recuperating what has already been done. And now, I remembered the soiled sheets and the impossibly far walk back to my room.
Thirty minutes later, I find myself standing in front of my dilapidated single mattress, absorbing the ammonia that had begun to befriend the friendlier of the more contemporary air molecules. It was uncomfortable, a decision to continue felt like a move towards embarking on a belligerent journey without any remorse or mercy. Adding to the list of faux-pas ingredients, the cancerous and blatant reality that stood erect before me, had already acquired a sort of look on its face that only sterile commercialists would have been able to understand. I took the entire transaction as a patronizing exercise in playing dumb… the imminence of a future purchase being, for the most part, a determinist component of my free-agent existence, all bundled up in gift-wrapping and ready for shipment. It is not that I was shy or that I had retraced my steps so as to reconsider. That I certainly did not.
I jumped, eyes closed, straight into the deep end. Warmth was to be expected. The whole experience, from tail to head, was nothing but uncompromising. My tired set of deprived follicles, fortified by the loosely hung smug-like smile on my face, provided the entertainment the entire time – depression was circumvented and the closing ceremony promised salutations of a high enough degree to justify torture. I also have to add that it did, however, feel surreal… like I had just gained forty-three pounds in one sitting and didn’t even bother to make a genuine note of what had transpired in my telephone book. Either way, while suspended in mud, crawling uphill, screaming, kicking, discouraging profanity but really failing heroically, it all ended. It all ended. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with my suspicious right forearm and made myself proud by piling the remains in the corner for ‘another time’ – same genome, different species – to concern itself with what would happen next.
And then the phone rang. It did sound like the voice of a man who was liked, but certainly not by many. Maybe. This incredible tempest of pent-up-ness, came through with so much assertion and certainty, that I felt comfortable enough with my own demeanor to continue the conversation. He asked why I was naked. It all felt strange. In anger, I addressed my trespasser with an even more unlikely answer. “My washer is broken and I have nothing to wear.” This apparently concerned me more than the man on the other side of the temporary but dyslexic chaos. After silence was interrupted by a slight inconvenienced sigh, I became so disengaged with what this creature of promises had to say that I simply lowered the item into which I was previously speaking onto the table on which it was geographically located and walked out of the room in which my person was previously compelled to enter into.
Clothes. Where was I going to find clothes for today’s adventure? The floor provided a wide array of options, choices and half-stale alternatives that really didn’t hydrate my palate to such an extent so as to convince me to make exceptions. I was adamant by now that the only possible items of clothing that I felt even slightly ambivalent about wearing today were going to be the ones that I was going to purchase in the immediate future (perhaps a future more immediate than distant), right after I showered and ate a small but no less nutritious breakfast. The thought of where I was keeping the fridge aside, what made this decision even more salient and perhaps solidified my desire to distance myself from this excruciatingly warm establishment I called ‘my home,’ was the obvious reality that I now had to enrich others for my own mistakes. On the one hand, the necessity for new sheets made sense, they were not going to be reused, especially not while my washer was hopelessly out of order for a time undefined. But the clothes? Why the clothes? They were an unnecessary added extra, an unfortunate and spontaneous irrelevancy that left the conundrum unresolved, for I had yet to shower, breakfast-up, find a solution to my mad intransigency and also take my life off hold. Or, possibly and with little shame, confront the famous philanthropist that just rang, with the sort of unfettered desire that even married nuns have difficulties with.
[TO BE CONTINUED?]