hiatus
I have a revolving door complex. (not to be confused with a martyr complex ... I'm not nearly dead, not mauled or gouged for Christ or my own emotional needs.)
it's my nature to turn, weild, cycle without hesitation, as soon as I see them coming. they're on cell phones, deep in conversation with their husbands, wives, mistresses, bosses; they're flirting, promising, lying. they're wearing Prada, GAP, and Walmart imitations, humming Coltrane and 50 Cent and this months' previously unheard of tortured-soul anthem, but it doesn't really matter. I let them pass through anyway. it's in my programing, my wiring, my mechanics, the way I was born in nameless factory-worn hands with too many scars and chunks of flesh missing.
I'm not biased. they all have to go through me, around me, anyway, so why decieve myself? I can't pick and choose them and I most likely wouldn't have the energy to turn up my nose if I could. life is this enormous department store and they all have previous engagements. they're in a hurry to meet love on the corner of such and such, in the bar downtown with lights so dim you don't even have to be drunk to make a mistake. they have to keep their promises, their lies, to the rest. they stride through. they create this carousel effect for a moment, strangers come together for a two second pleasure ride. I catch bits of them, in the stale cologne and starched colors, the runs in their thigh highs. a sigh, an inhaling of channeled air and they step out of me and are gone. maybe till tomorrow, maybe forever, and what does it matter.
should it matter?
there is always a new face to spin 'round and through, always a new scent, nasal voice chattering, bravado still wet on the corners of their mouths. always something new, you know. I'm never bereft of novelties and it's not in me to feel used. it's why I was created, needed, installed, my purpose, my definition. to provide a way for individuals to transition to and through something bigger than themselves. it wasn't written that they ought to stay for a while, make themselves comfortable, get familiar, get close enough to touch, leave a smudge on the glass like a sticky fingered five year old with hair like a porcelain doll.
in any case, I know how it works. and for the record, there is an official glitch in my gears, a bug in the wiring. I'm turning too slowly now, too tiredly, doggedly. people are afraid that I'll lock them in, keep them from leaving, a ghost in the machines. terrifying thought, I know. me, barring the door, putting my foot down, where do you think you're going? can't they see it's not something I expected? I really did think I'd spin flawlessly, well oiled and well mannered. didn't think I'd ever mind. didn't think it would ever get lonely.
so. I'm being shut down to be worked on, repaired properly. they will all have to use the doors on either side of me. they don't revolve around them like me but they will let them pass, provide a transition, get them where they need to go. it's all in perspective, I guess. with my yellow caution tape and potbellied workers opening me up with wrenches, my situation will be a mild inconvenience to the para-professionals and blue collars, the impulse shoppers and stringent mothers, the poets and addicts, to doe-eyed children and moody teenagers. but they'll get through, get to where they need to be, that's the point, really, with or without me.
I need this. my paid vacation, my office sabatical, my two weeks in Bermuda to lie around and massage oil into my skin. the company sent some good guys, they know what they're doing. I should be up and running before too long, back good as new, back to soundlessly, effortlessly whirling you all around like it's nothing because it's nothing out of the ordinary. but for now, take the detour. get to Point B, get where you were headed anyway, past me, without going through the eye of the needle, punching your way through the haystack.
I say this all with no malice. you didn't break me, I'm not blame shifting, things just get worn down, you know. everything man-made falters sometimes, sometimes when you least expect it. maybe you saw this coming and carefully sidestepped this whole thing, my whole thing. maybe you have intuition. you pulled out before it was too late, before my pirouette shuddered to a stop like a planet on a rusty axis or a music box ballerina wound too tight for too long. who knows.
whatever the case, take care, I guess. I don't know ... I'm no good at goodbyes. I'm tired, though, of the portal feeling. you would be too, after a while. I hope your transition was smooth and I apologize if it wasn't. not my intention, you know. when I get back, you may not recognize me. all bright and shiny, unlike me now, smudged with oil, all my parts lying around on imported marble. best of luck, all. use the sidedoors. and, oh! remember to push hard - they're not locked, just heavy.
okay. guess that's it.