no subject
i suppose it is a comfortable couch. any other day, in any other house, and i would enjoy sleeping on it. i would enjoy the windows, and the piano, and the vast, terrifying mirror. i would be annoyed by the light on my face, but i would think the lamppost poetic, or poignant, or mysterious. i might even write a song about it, another silhouette on my mythological airplane. tonight, however, everything is uneasy, and i'm having trouble stepping outside of my own head. propaganda panda is far away, crashing through forests and standing in the middle of the road and singing loudly and triumphantly. i am here. i have been here before, but now it is different. i am older, and i am tired, and i have seen things, and i am unwelcome.
i look at their faces and it is like they are behind plexi-glass. there is something confusing about the way that they look at me, at my family. i feel like we are not really here, and that we will become insubstantial and blow away. i feel like this would be an equitable arrangement and eventually, it will be agreed upon that this will be best for everyone involved. but no, it won't be the best for everyone involved. the contract will be revised. we can't be ghosts, because ghosts are reminders. we were hungry and you fed us. we were cold and you took us in - not necessarily because you loved us, although we are sure that must have been part of it - but because you wanted to put us away. you couldn't have us drifting aimlessly over the earth, waiting to meet you in new york, and london, and zurich. if you couldn't restore us to the power and glory you now enjoy and depend on, you would break us down until we don't exist at all. i can't say i blame you. i can't say that i wouldn't do exactly the same thing if i were you, and you were me, and today wasn't today, but three years ago today. so go ahead, i guess. eat your homemade pizza in your dining room with its dangling coffee shop light fixtures (powder blue) and your poorly behaved dog and vaulted ceilings. make your juices with your wheat grass and carrots and fennel. watch uplifting movies in your theater room. turn the subwoofer up. talk to me about chi-gong yoga. admire our sacrifices. tomorrow i will go to mass and i will ask god to care for my family, to give them an opportunity to be poor. i will pray for humility and patience and i will thank him for this blanket. i will thank him that i have this instead of yesterday's newspaper. i will pray for forgiveness, and i will ask him to take all of my bitterness. tonight, however, i am not sure that i am able to pray. i am almost convinced that if i opened my mouth to speak to anyone, nothing would come out. maybe tomorrow morning i will wake up to find that i don't have to open the door to the kitchen, the door that prevents the dog from herding all of your neighbors into a tight knot of shivering, spandex-clad class-action lawsuit filers - maybe tomorrow the dog won't bark at me. maybe tomorrow all of this will pass through me, and i will pass through the couch that i am sitting on now, and fall through the floor, and drift through the vents like a vapor.
maybe tomorrow i will find out that i will live the rest of my life as a cold, silent mist, and that my sole legacy shall be a small patch of dryrot where the ceiling meets the wall, fifty-two inches away from the chandelier, with a good view of the foyer, but far enough away from any actual living spaces so as not to necessitate repairs.
i look at their faces and it is like they are behind plexi-glass. there is something confusing about the way that they look at me, at my family. i feel like we are not really here, and that we will become insubstantial and blow away. i feel like this would be an equitable arrangement and eventually, it will be agreed upon that this will be best for everyone involved. but no, it won't be the best for everyone involved. the contract will be revised. we can't be ghosts, because ghosts are reminders. we were hungry and you fed us. we were cold and you took us in - not necessarily because you loved us, although we are sure that must have been part of it - but because you wanted to put us away. you couldn't have us drifting aimlessly over the earth, waiting to meet you in new york, and london, and zurich. if you couldn't restore us to the power and glory you now enjoy and depend on, you would break us down until we don't exist at all. i can't say i blame you. i can't say that i wouldn't do exactly the same thing if i were you, and you were me, and today wasn't today, but three years ago today. so go ahead, i guess. eat your homemade pizza in your dining room with its dangling coffee shop light fixtures (powder blue) and your poorly behaved dog and vaulted ceilings. make your juices with your wheat grass and carrots and fennel. watch uplifting movies in your theater room. turn the subwoofer up. talk to me about chi-gong yoga. admire our sacrifices. tomorrow i will go to mass and i will ask god to care for my family, to give them an opportunity to be poor. i will pray for humility and patience and i will thank him for this blanket. i will thank him that i have this instead of yesterday's newspaper. i will pray for forgiveness, and i will ask him to take all of my bitterness. tonight, however, i am not sure that i am able to pray. i am almost convinced that if i opened my mouth to speak to anyone, nothing would come out. maybe tomorrow morning i will wake up to find that i don't have to open the door to the kitchen, the door that prevents the dog from herding all of your neighbors into a tight knot of shivering, spandex-clad class-action lawsuit filers - maybe tomorrow the dog won't bark at me. maybe tomorrow all of this will pass through me, and i will pass through the couch that i am sitting on now, and fall through the floor, and drift through the vents like a vapor.
maybe tomorrow i will find out that i will live the rest of my life as a cold, silent mist, and that my sole legacy shall be a small patch of dryrot where the ceiling meets the wall, fifty-two inches away from the chandelier, with a good view of the foyer, but far enough away from any actual living spaces so as not to necessitate repairs.