abusing the machine
telling myself i'm not going to use it for a while now that S is gone. sitting in the living room by the window that doesn't look out on anything but a brick wall, for hours, knowing it's getting dark when the brick wall dims and i can't make out the spaces between stones.
slamming my foot in a doorway by accident. hobbling from couch to bed to fridge and various points between. more time staring at the brick wall. smoking cigarettes at a pace i know deep down is beyond unhealthy. the machine sits in the closet all this time but i'm not touching it, i am strong and i will see myself through this.
one evening hobbling to the train station, it takes thirty minutes to walk the five short blocks. boy, you're in a bad state, i say, but i board the train for new york anyways. as we rumble past apartment buildings i think of the machine sitting in the closet, in the dark, the crystal pepsi bubbling inside reactor six's chamber. it's cool, though, i say as i shift from one foot to the other, wounded to sturdy. it's cool because i'm strong.
in manhattan i'm waiting, sipping tea, reading over the paper but i can't focus on any of the stories. just scanning the fields of type is enough to keep me from really losing it. there's a giant clock behind me ticking towards eight but of course i can't see it so i keep checking my phone. 7:53. 7:54. 7:57. 8:02. i start to think this was a bad idea and even sitting gets tense. then there she is standing on the corner as my phone screen lights up. a few minutes later and would you believe it i'm as calm as the water in the reservoir over in the park, just slight ripples breezing through as i sit and think about how strange it all is.
it was raining so we took the crosstown bus and i thought to myself, well this is nice again. this is what S and i never had and i guess--well--i don't know if it's all nice because of a rainy night in september or a dim coffeeshop or what. maybe it's just that i've been sitting by that window so much that i just needed anything to get me away from it. from those fading bricks and that worn out old sofa.
six days later and i can walk again but boy am i still smarting. sitting by the phone as day turns to late afternoon turns to evening turns to bedtime. saying the same thing every morning before hopping that train to the city. tuesday night rolls around and i pull the machine out of the closet. sneak into the kitchen and fill up chamber six with a fresh 16 oz i kept hidden under the sink. from 1:42am to 1:43am i'm wavy but of course there's no one in the kitchen at that hour to see me.
wasted a whole bottle of fuel going back to that rainy night, opening my umbrella and then having to close it just as soon when the bus pulls up to columbus. sitting in the coffeeshop talking about maps, running my thumb along the edge of the mug over and over. sitting on the bus as it darts between the trees and leaps back out onto the banks of the east side like a big metal fish fighting the current.
went to bed bleary-eyed and stowed the machine back in the closet. woke up the next day and still nothing from the phone. was it worth it?
slamming my foot in a doorway by accident. hobbling from couch to bed to fridge and various points between. more time staring at the brick wall. smoking cigarettes at a pace i know deep down is beyond unhealthy. the machine sits in the closet all this time but i'm not touching it, i am strong and i will see myself through this.
one evening hobbling to the train station, it takes thirty minutes to walk the five short blocks. boy, you're in a bad state, i say, but i board the train for new york anyways. as we rumble past apartment buildings i think of the machine sitting in the closet, in the dark, the crystal pepsi bubbling inside reactor six's chamber. it's cool, though, i say as i shift from one foot to the other, wounded to sturdy. it's cool because i'm strong.
in manhattan i'm waiting, sipping tea, reading over the paper but i can't focus on any of the stories. just scanning the fields of type is enough to keep me from really losing it. there's a giant clock behind me ticking towards eight but of course i can't see it so i keep checking my phone. 7:53. 7:54. 7:57. 8:02. i start to think this was a bad idea and even sitting gets tense. then there she is standing on the corner as my phone screen lights up. a few minutes later and would you believe it i'm as calm as the water in the reservoir over in the park, just slight ripples breezing through as i sit and think about how strange it all is. it was raining so we took the crosstown bus and i thought to myself, well this is nice again. this is what S and i never had and i guess--well--i don't know if it's all nice because of a rainy night in september or a dim coffeeshop or what. maybe it's just that i've been sitting by that window so much that i just needed anything to get me away from it. from those fading bricks and that worn out old sofa.
six days later and i can walk again but boy am i still smarting. sitting by the phone as day turns to late afternoon turns to evening turns to bedtime. saying the same thing every morning before hopping that train to the city. tuesday night rolls around and i pull the machine out of the closet. sneak into the kitchen and fill up chamber six with a fresh 16 oz i kept hidden under the sink. from 1:42am to 1:43am i'm wavy but of course there's no one in the kitchen at that hour to see me.
wasted a whole bottle of fuel going back to that rainy night, opening my umbrella and then having to close it just as soon when the bus pulls up to columbus. sitting in the coffeeshop talking about maps, running my thumb along the edge of the mug over and over. sitting on the bus as it darts between the trees and leaps back out onto the banks of the east side like a big metal fish fighting the current.
went to bed bleary-eyed and stowed the machine back in the closet. woke up the next day and still nothing from the phone. was it worth it?
posted by TID Staff at 11:19 AM
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