Friday, 16 March 2012
I have a lot of problems, the undiagnosed, armchair problems that berate the mind of lazy talents. One of my problems is that I think too much and do too little. But there is a more pertinent problem facing me at the moment. As the sun fills my bedroom turned office with dusty heat, I am forced awake and it is before noon—an aberration. Haphazardly I throw my left arm near where, nightly, I normally put my glass of water I use to dampen my mouth--which is vacuumed nightly by an illusive bully as I sleep off the effects of cyclically drinking. The empty slap says the water is not there. It often isn’t, as more things slip through the deepening fissures in my dilapidated mind. After many blind, hearty jabs I know for certain that I cannot prolong my time in bed and, unfortunately, must begin this day. I grab the poorest looking clothes nearest at hand so as not to be classifiable or typically fashionable. Then I look about my room dozens of times trying to collect my thoughts among things that are not mine. This daily unconscious ritual is married with oblivion and I take an especially long time in this cramped space I habit when I visit my family. Sitting on the bed to lace up my shoes exacerbates the unfamiliarity of my temporary abode, the firmness of the child’s bed from which I just arose is forcing me off the side and I struggle to escape my baneful hut. To the cupboard I saunter, the encompassing black in my eyes from my morning headrush receeds just before I smack into the dining room table. My diet has changed, it’s a “college thing”… or whatever. I’m a fucking vegetarian and it’s been easy so far, except when I visit my family. Here I eat pasta and cereal, my choice this morning is obvious. I sit at the table with tousled hair and a sallow face wondering who will be the first to greet me this morning. At one point I knew the schedule, but that wasnt a conscious effort. My family dog saddles up beside my chair and I rub his head and watch the hair float until it leaves the sunlight shining through the back door and ceases to captivate me. Some lands in my bowl but I shrug it off and continue eating. I’ve spent too much time starting at the Ansel Adams photo on the kitchen wall and my cereal gets soggy, I gag at the sight of it drooping over my spoon. Soggy cereal the worst, I ceaselessly avoid all things attached to the adjective “soggy”. Soggy cereal and mouth boogers: two morning gagfests. I always get the mouth boogers when brushing my teeth, it must have something to do with having my mouth open for so long, or maybe my tooth brush jars it from the back of my throat. I yell to see if anyone is home, forgetting that my sister may still be asleep, but no one answers. I inspect the cul-de-sac through the bay window in our front room and confirm that no one is around before I step outside to see if I dressed wisely. November is bright, even brighter than summer, but summer always comes with sunny expectations. I act surprised by the weather as if this was something new for Concord, like when people marvel at how early the dark sets in during winter, like it wasn’t something they had experienced every damn winter.