(no subject)
New Year’s Resolution
It’s 11:48pm. Twelve minutes to midnight and the start of a new year. I stand in front of a mirror that shows my body from mid waist up to the ceiling behind me. It’s interesting how when you look into the mirror the person you see never quite feels like you. Every time you look at the form in front of you there are things that don’t fit.
There’s a razor and some shaving cream sitting perilously close to the edge of the inverted shell-fish sink. A razor and cream I never intend to use again. My Near Year’s resolution to never shave my face; never make that extra effort to complete the image…hoping somehow that in letting my face sprout sporadic and unkempt I will gain a part of myself that remains to be seen in the reflection. Also in time to cover, in uncontrolled growth, the parts that seem added by someone else.
A separation of me from the world.
A buffer.
Red rope.
Caution tape.
My face seems inactive, hairy and loose. Eyes telling nothing of the secret battle in my mind. It’s 11:51. The mirror gleams freshly cleaned. The reflection of me not nearly as filthy as I feel.
I pick up the can and shake it around a bit. It spurts foam into my palm when I press the button down all the way; using more force then was needed. The foam piles high like whipping cream clouds. Spread the cream on the reflection of my face, too many movies with scenes of pie fights flash card motion picture in my head. Like carousel cartoon strips of running horses. Or stick figure men with flat-top hats carrying suitcases on endless strolls to nowhere in particular.
I take the razor and scrape a strip of shaving cream off the mirror. Mostly; it smears and smudges. It’s 11:55. Five minutes to midnight and so far nothing seems to have changed. The strip of face that is once again exposed still looks like it doesn’t belong to me.
I knock the razor against the inside of the shell.
One grain of sand appears in my stomach. It’s the seeds of panic and time-
Redundant.
Time is panic.
It is 11:56 and I’ve failed to feel different. I glide the razor across the mirror; half my face is visible through streaks of the white foam.
I knock the razor against the corpse of sea life. The foam splatters and gathers in a pile. My hand digs deep and brings the cream to my face, I smear and it becomes my beard.
Its 11:58 and I fail to feel whole. Its 11:58 and some seconds and I start to feel the rush of time as adrenaline and a quickened pulse.
Spread the cream with the butt end of my razor like buttering the mirror.
My face is a slice of bread porous and bland.
Its 11:59 and I start shaving my face blind. I’m not sure why but I did. The razor nicks my face and I feel the pressure of a drop of blood force its way from the wound. I keep shaving pushing harder with much more force then was needed. Its 11:59 and some seconds and I see the muscles in my forearm ripple and roll with the pressure I apply to the blade. I wrinkle my face in pain and dig deep. Digging at the pieces that don’t fit. The parts that don’t belong. The memories that burrow and dive into your skin and leave traces like wrinkles and half smiles of folded skin.
It’s midnight. It’s the New Year and I fail to feel different.
The razor leaves my face and there is a strip of skin that has curled red pink and white out the other side of the blade.
I knock it against the inside of the gutted corpse of some sea creature that swallows the skin and blood with the help of my spit and urging curse words.
I curl my hand into a fist and smash it into the reflection a person who is less me now then twelve minutes prior.
It’s 11:48pm. Twelve minutes to midnight and the start of a new year. I stand in front of a mirror that shows my body from mid waist up to the ceiling behind me. It’s interesting how when you look into the mirror the person you see never quite feels like you. Every time you look at the form in front of you there are things that don’t fit.
There’s a razor and some shaving cream sitting perilously close to the edge of the inverted shell-fish sink. A razor and cream I never intend to use again. My Near Year’s resolution to never shave my face; never make that extra effort to complete the image…hoping somehow that in letting my face sprout sporadic and unkempt I will gain a part of myself that remains to be seen in the reflection. Also in time to cover, in uncontrolled growth, the parts that seem added by someone else.
A separation of me from the world.
A buffer.
Red rope.
Caution tape.
My face seems inactive, hairy and loose. Eyes telling nothing of the secret battle in my mind. It’s 11:51. The mirror gleams freshly cleaned. The reflection of me not nearly as filthy as I feel.
I pick up the can and shake it around a bit. It spurts foam into my palm when I press the button down all the way; using more force then was needed. The foam piles high like whipping cream clouds. Spread the cream on the reflection of my face, too many movies with scenes of pie fights flash card motion picture in my head. Like carousel cartoon strips of running horses. Or stick figure men with flat-top hats carrying suitcases on endless strolls to nowhere in particular.
I take the razor and scrape a strip of shaving cream off the mirror. Mostly; it smears and smudges. It’s 11:55. Five minutes to midnight and so far nothing seems to have changed. The strip of face that is once again exposed still looks like it doesn’t belong to me.
I knock the razor against the inside of the shell.
One grain of sand appears in my stomach. It’s the seeds of panic and time-
Redundant.
Time is panic.
It is 11:56 and I’ve failed to feel different. I glide the razor across the mirror; half my face is visible through streaks of the white foam.
I knock the razor against the corpse of sea life. The foam splatters and gathers in a pile. My hand digs deep and brings the cream to my face, I smear and it becomes my beard.
Its 11:58 and I fail to feel whole. Its 11:58 and some seconds and I start to feel the rush of time as adrenaline and a quickened pulse.
Spread the cream with the butt end of my razor like buttering the mirror.
My face is a slice of bread porous and bland.
Its 11:59 and I start shaving my face blind. I’m not sure why but I did. The razor nicks my face and I feel the pressure of a drop of blood force its way from the wound. I keep shaving pushing harder with much more force then was needed. Its 11:59 and some seconds and I see the muscles in my forearm ripple and roll with the pressure I apply to the blade. I wrinkle my face in pain and dig deep. Digging at the pieces that don’t fit. The parts that don’t belong. The memories that burrow and dive into your skin and leave traces like wrinkles and half smiles of folded skin.
It’s midnight. It’s the New Year and I fail to feel different.
The razor leaves my face and there is a strip of skin that has curled red pink and white out the other side of the blade.
I knock it against the inside of the gutted corpse of some sea creature that swallows the skin and blood with the help of my spit and urging curse words.
I curl my hand into a fist and smash it into the reflection a person who is less me now then twelve minutes prior.