Sunday, March 08, 2009

On the menu

Waking up from 12 hours of sleep yes sleep I guess sleep I’m remembering what 12 hours of sleep feels like: nothing. I mean it feels like I haven’t even begun. Staring at the hairs on my arm sheltered by the butter yellow sheet no not butter something softer what do they call this yellow? This arm? My fingers are spongy, sweaty, clammy like a little kid’s fingers I touch my nostrils that’s something I did when I was little, inhale.

Somehow I’m thinking about those books I read in sixth seventh eighth grade, all the big classics I was ambitious and everyone was always going to the sanatorium. I’m ready for the sanatorium.

Of course no one recovers at the sanatorium, that’s part of the point it’s a metaphor for trying to get away but you don’t you gaze up at the trees at the mountains at the sky or down at the grass into the lake maybe you even swim if you’re not too sick or you’re getting better but everything is inside it’s society crumbling in your nostrils you’ll never breathe again. Maybe I need to go back to those books, the only one I’ve read again since then was The Brothers Karamazov, I don’t know if anyone makes it to the sanatorium in The Brothers Karamazov.

Someone is smoking pot and it’s filled my apartment, is that why my whole face is cluttered with helplessness and hopelessness: disgrace, somehow a rhyme might help. I stand outside on the fire escape and peer down, sure enough all the windows of the apartment below me are closed, do people smoke pot with the windows closed? Why, why with the windows closed, their walls lead to my walls my nostrils, society crumbling. I look in the sink: two pots, two pots soaking. I need to get those pots out of the sink.

Whenever I tell someone about a particular day when I feel like I’ve done nothing, somewhere in that day there’s at least two hours of cooking and that somehow feels like nothing to me, I mean something that I just have to do, no matter what, because I have to eat. I can’t escape outside to buy something, it’ll just make me sick. There’s even a vegan restaurant directly across the street: everything on the menu makes me sick. Everything.

I’m trying to replace hopelessness with hunger -- I don’t mean eating, that doesn’t feel like hunger to me it’s just avoiding collapse. Hunger is sucking cock. Making out. Those eyes. Spit in my face, I can eat that.

But desire fades so quickly, and then I’m back to hopelessness. At the sanatorium they cook for you, right? I wonder what’s on the menu.

2 comments:

Hilary Goldberg said...

i prefer to picture you in a planetarium surrounded by twinkling lights but no smoke machines.

xhil

mattilda bernstein sycamore said...

Yes yes a planetarium... and stars, we're stars!

Love --
mattilda