I don’t know. Maybe five or ten years from now, wherever I am, I’ll remember sitting here, playing with the bobby pin that had been lying on my dinner table.
It’s a dark, metallic brown, slightly curved, and nothing to get excited about. If I put it down and look at it, it’s nothing special. If I look beyond it, into the reflection of the glass table top, I can see the tentacle-like arms of the lighting above. Even against a grainy brown, they’re shiny, gleaming as though the darkness doesn’t even exist.
Perhaps I’ll remember Toby lying by my chair. He does that. The way he’s placed himself, he looks like a furry capital J, with a few chocolate splotches and a chocolate head surrounding by white. He’s guarding me, I suppose. Tears had started to form, I’d put my head on the table, sniffing and starting to cry, and he walked over. He has this habit of cocking his head to one side and staring at me, as if he is trying to deduce what it is that’s killing me. More comforting or maybe eerie is the fact that he can tell when the worst is about to strike. The ambiguous “they” say that animals have that kind of sense about them: although I hesitate to make a blanket statement about his cognitive skills, I think that Toby does at least know something about me.
It could be that I’ll remember that I’m coughing at the moment. My whole throat is disgusted and tired; it’s tired of me not drinking enough. And for that matter, my entire body is irritated that I’m not eating like I should. It’s not as though I’m trying to offend it! I swear! There’s no reason for me to insult it, even if I had made that a regular habit in the past. But, there’s just a resounding CAN’T, an echoing DON’T. I can’t eat as I have before because I simply don’t have an appetite. Without being intentional, I have lost the will to nourish myself.
Years from now, I’ll remember that there are growing gatherings of tissues to my right, laying on my blue binder, and in front of me, between my arms and the laptop. I keep paper companies in business. Kleenex, Scott. . . they all make a fortune off me. I like this particular box though. It doesn’t scream hospital or industrial or trendy or cliché; it’s just swirls of blue. It reminds me of water, water in which I yearn to get lost and disappear.
I’ve crumpled all the tissues and moved them to the side. It’s not that I actually want to drown. Or bleed out. Or get shot. Or overdose. I don’t, honestly. But, I can’t be blamed for desperately wanting to escape.
I count stairs. I count flights, then how many times I ascend and/or descend them. I count trips per day or per week and then estimating how many trips I take in a month or during the year. It all starts with the day and the fact that I work on the second floor of a building with no elevator. Try navigating that every day with crutches and a Frankenstein boot. That, incidentally, has made me very bitter and angry.
I ran a marathon four years ago and finished a triathlon two years ago. It seemed that I was going to have a running bi-annual streak of some significant athletic achievement. This year? Nothing. I haven’t been able to run at all in months, and I haven’t been able to train consistently in well over a year. A pair of my favorite shoes, Nikes with an iridescent green swoosh, sits by the mirror in my closet, both barely used. I’m back at it though. I’m pulling them out. I’m doing rehab. I’m strengthening my problem foot now. And now the other one hurts.
Perspective, perspective! Have some perspective! Keep your perspective! If I look at someone else, that should change my perspective! Honestly, sometimes those polly-annas should just shut the fuck up. I know I’m not in the worst state of human existence. But telling me to consistently deny the state of my health devalues where I stand.
I like vivid colors. A few weeks ago, I got really excited because I bought two nice pens, black and blue inks respectively, and a pack of rainbow Post-y notes. I love Post-y notes. They help me remember things. These in particular, a yellow, an orange, a pink, a purple, and a blue: all could be named with those fabulous Crayola colors. And I do have the box of ninety-six. They cheer me up. They are what I use what I draw. They’re simple, unobtrusive, gentle, yet very, very present. There’s none of the snobbery of pastel crayons that can cost anything Midas had for just a box of eight. Instead, these are egalitarian. These are brothers. They are free.
I like the subtle and the old because, if their histories are investigated, turns out they do not match their dusty surfaces. I have this bronze-ish tin statue of a knight, seemingly benign, and I like it. It fits. But this metallic little man carries a halberd, one of the most lethal weapons of the age of chivalry. Then there’s the card table that stands against the wall, behind my knight. It has a lovely still-life painted on it. It’s not entirely clear as to which artistic period it’s from, but no matter which time is assigned to it, there is always something vibrant, exciting, or terrifying lurking somewhere nearby.
I’m resting my chin on the tabletop now. It’s not that I’m tired. That’s not the case in the least. But I need the change. The laptop’s fan is on high speed now, steadily blowing because I’ve worked it too hard.
I found the companion bobby pin on the floor a few minutes ago, and between sentences, I play with the pair. I tap them on the table and move one around on the smooth surface with the other. I stare at them staring at each other as they freeze, too tired to joke around. They’re still. And so am I, except for my eyes watching letters appear on the screen, counting how many sentences I’ve put in this paragraph. Is it at least five to seven? If so, then I’ve succeeded in my duties as an English teacher, having taught myself proper format. Although, I have to be truthful and say that I don’t give a shit if beginning sentences with the word “And” is against the rules. I’m such a fucking rebel.
I have magnetic poetry on the side of my fridge. I haven’t said much with it as of late because I don’t want to look at it. The phrases I formed discuss love. There is a phrase that someone else formed; it also discusses love. We have discussed love with each other. We don’t discuss it anymore.
I want to seek out a specific film writer. It’s a little embarrassing, actually. No one believes me when I state as my motive that I’m hoping to have a conversation about literature, poetry, film, books, and the overall text experience. Instead, my desire is ascribed to his fame and appearance. I want him, apparently. I guess I can’t be a writer and want to find other writers, handsome celebrity writers, and still be thought of as level-headed and professional.
I wonder about being a writer. I like words. And I like being able to type them without looking at the keys or the screen. Thank goodness for the faithfulness and consistency of the QWERTY. It makes me feel like Mozart, except that I’m more of a nerd and less of a crazy prodigy who was the subject of a critically acclaimed movie. I also didn’t piss off the court composer of a major European power. Score one for me.
It’s nice being able to steal a throw pillow from the dog who stole one himself and rest my head on that while I write. Writers can do that. I can’t think of many other professions where one can do that sort of thing. There are some, of course. But, I don’t believe that those jobs allow for an escape into the seemingly bottomless cellars of the subconscious. I have a lot going on down there. Sometimes it’s scary venturing into the dark, but it’s critical that I do.
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