This is for all the artists who know that work is just a drop in the ocean
but do it anyway, hopin.
With two eyes made into clefts, a soporific body hangs listless over the porcelain edge; a perverse hand uncurls, one digit leading the next, and reaches for the bathtub knob. Sounds of the holiday morning deafen transient chimerical images: the twins, the snap of sizzling butter, and the intervals between tantrums. I turn the knob to the left, it yawns; hot water spews from the rusted faucet in choked gurgles. It sputters, it falters, a warning to the mortal user.
Good Morning, are you sure you want to go there? I reply yes.
The bathroom is devoured by the progeny of hot water and a closed door. My back against a sea-green, Miami reminiscent wall, head back, condensed air tiptoe on my exposed not-yet-brushed tongue, limbs tucked under a childhood blanket, or "booby", I decompress.
I feel a twinge of guilt, an itch in the middle of my back, unreachable by furious scratching. We're still running out of water right? But I excuse. This pseudo-sauna is my own peculiar, non-environmentally friendly, but still efficient, form of self-medication – mental health board approved, no alcohol, drugs, or promiscuity required eco-group boycotted therapy.
This year I do not like Thanksgiving Day, apart from the accessibility to calories, which serves a dual purpose: an accelerant for cardiac arrest and epicenter for comfort. All years prior, Thanksgiving was acceptable, stuffing, moderately enjoyable company, and whipped cream. An uncle of mine has been spiking my cranberry juice since the time of training bras.
This twelvemonth I am reminded of the infamous turkey day 2007, a day to taint its predecessors.
I slept undisturbed on the couch, walled in by Adobe, and subdued by the carnivorous smells drifting in from the back door, the barely audible shuffle of slipper clad feet stuck onto the limbs of my then soul mate, now defunct. I awoke to the weight of him joined to my back, his uneven breathing in my hair, resin and smoke, the slow pulse in his wrist beating against my forearm, and the fire alarm. We dined on slightly burnt turkey and locally brewed beer harnessed in frosted mugs – my contribution, his teachings.
This time around both heart and stomach are caged in his clenched fist, bleeding, pulsing, and oozing. I will undoubtedly find relief in the celery and cheese dip – a vegetarian evening on the mend.
My uncle from the other side (sobriety not sponsorship) took me out for an independent artsy-fuck film last night at the Chez Artiste. It was called "I've loved you so long". Admittedly, I was enthralled with the title albeit the narrative was between two sisters; I saw it as fitting for pre-Thanksgiving torture. We sat in the decrepit seats, defeated by their battle with age, and sipped Dasani water. My local conspiracy theorist has warned me about the hazardous amounts of Lithium in tap water. This health hazard might actually work to my benefit. I am a still undiagnosed Bipolar-Borderline Personality Disorder-Neurotic.
A wave of nausea crept up from the red fabric of the seats. I thought of all that still needs to be completed, or begun – the screenplay, the quasi-autobiographical novel, the Vanity Fair article, and the occasional obituary. My stomach threatened to force its contents against gravity. I rushed to the restroom and crouched over the toilet with eyes closed; in fear the toilets shared the same birth date as the theatre.
In the coolness of the bowl, my sickness subsiding, I saw myself standing on the stage before a modest amount of people, the bright lights blinding, with knees shaking and the smell of vomit pooling to my side.
I address the crowd: Ladies and gentleman welcome to my world, step inside my head. Please feel free to look around; touch, and even lick what you may find. My mind is your temple.
The theatre goers shift awkwardly in their seats and shoot uncomfortable horizontal gazes. The conforming normal folk are weeded out, the critics scribble notes for ridicule, but the appreciators of the mundane and strange remain, a piece of me wired in them, a piece of them floating in the product of my nerves. I scurry offstage to resume involuntary regurgitation. The whole we are all one bit complete.
One might say the missing ingredient and the root of my nausea is motivation, and the lack thereof. So instead of preening my ego with you, I'm going to go celebrate a dysfunctional Thanksgiving, and write love poems to my now obsolete soul mate on paper napkins adorned with pumpkins and leaves. Perhaps ambition will doodle its way in between.
Good Morning, are you sure you want to go there? I reply yes.
The bathroom is devoured by the progeny of hot water and a closed door. My back against a sea-green, Miami reminiscent wall, head back, condensed air tiptoe on my exposed not-yet-brushed tongue, limbs tucked under a childhood blanket, or "booby", I decompress.
I feel a twinge of guilt, an itch in the middle of my back, unreachable by furious scratching. We're still running out of water right? But I excuse. This pseudo-sauna is my own peculiar, non-environmentally friendly, but still efficient, form of self-medication – mental health board approved, no alcohol, drugs, or promiscuity required eco-group boycotted therapy.
This year I do not like Thanksgiving Day, apart from the accessibility to calories, which serves a dual purpose: an accelerant for cardiac arrest and epicenter for comfort. All years prior, Thanksgiving was acceptable, stuffing, moderately enjoyable company, and whipped cream. An uncle of mine has been spiking my cranberry juice since the time of training bras.
This twelvemonth I am reminded of the infamous turkey day 2007, a day to taint its predecessors.
I slept undisturbed on the couch, walled in by Adobe, and subdued by the carnivorous smells drifting in from the back door, the barely audible shuffle of slipper clad feet stuck onto the limbs of my then soul mate, now defunct. I awoke to the weight of him joined to my back, his uneven breathing in my hair, resin and smoke, the slow pulse in his wrist beating against my forearm, and the fire alarm. We dined on slightly burnt turkey and locally brewed beer harnessed in frosted mugs – my contribution, his teachings.
This time around both heart and stomach are caged in his clenched fist, bleeding, pulsing, and oozing. I will undoubtedly find relief in the celery and cheese dip – a vegetarian evening on the mend.
My uncle from the other side (sobriety not sponsorship) took me out for an independent artsy-fuck film last night at the Chez Artiste. It was called "I've loved you so long". Admittedly, I was enthralled with the title albeit the narrative was between two sisters; I saw it as fitting for pre-Thanksgiving torture. We sat in the decrepit seats, defeated by their battle with age, and sipped Dasani water. My local conspiracy theorist has warned me about the hazardous amounts of Lithium in tap water. This health hazard might actually work to my benefit. I am a still undiagnosed Bipolar-Borderline Personality Disorder-Neurotic.
A wave of nausea crept up from the red fabric of the seats. I thought of all that still needs to be completed, or begun – the screenplay, the quasi-autobiographical novel, the Vanity Fair article, and the occasional obituary. My stomach threatened to force its contents against gravity. I rushed to the restroom and crouched over the toilet with eyes closed; in fear the toilets shared the same birth date as the theatre.
In the coolness of the bowl, my sickness subsiding, I saw myself standing on the stage before a modest amount of people, the bright lights blinding, with knees shaking and the smell of vomit pooling to my side.
I address the crowd: Ladies and gentleman welcome to my world, step inside my head. Please feel free to look around; touch, and even lick what you may find. My mind is your temple.
The theatre goers shift awkwardly in their seats and shoot uncomfortable horizontal gazes. The conforming normal folk are weeded out, the critics scribble notes for ridicule, but the appreciators of the mundane and strange remain, a piece of me wired in them, a piece of them floating in the product of my nerves. I scurry offstage to resume involuntary regurgitation. The whole we are all one bit complete.
One might say the missing ingredient and the root of my nausea is motivation, and the lack thereof. So instead of preening my ego with you, I'm going to go celebrate a dysfunctional Thanksgiving, and write love poems to my now obsolete soul mate on paper napkins adorned with pumpkins and leaves. Perhaps ambition will doodle its way in between.
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