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Sunday, March 23rd, 2008
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9:22p - The Dust Horse
This house is like an forgotten disease. A tumor that I'd extracted with an old rusty pair of pliers and a six week old shaving razor. Being back in it is strange, and any new attempts to breathe life into it are being met with the most surprising resistance. The only thing I can really do to stave it off is retreat to what little space I've got, and attempt to streamline there. I've got Achilles playing on the stereo, that keeps most of the other inhabitants away, save for them coming in from time to time to tell me that they need more firewood. I scratch their back, and they attempt to break my spirits.
The record just ended, I like to let it run for a bit and use the *thud* *thud* *thud* as a sort of list. For every bass movement that comes from the album not restarting, I think of what I've accomplished. Of course I'm the only person who enjoys this, and so halfway through my tally I am interrupted, and have to act like I was just about to flip the record over. Instead of seeming like I'm using it to preserve my intimacy with the dust and stains that I'm working on removing.
Again, the record finishes, and to avoid redundancy I change it. I don't have many heavy records right now, so I've got to choose carefully. 'Witness' should work though. I walk out into the kitchen to brew another pot of insomnia. It's going to be a long night, but after I'm done I should be able to wake up okay tomorrow. I should be able to climb out of bed instead of having a wall of resistance and thinking well I'll just get up in 5 minutes and then pass out for another 2 hours. Resting in a the waste.
I stop the record to go outside and burn some of the papers that have been strangling my bookshelves and dresser drawers. When I come back inside I smell like chemical smoke. My dad alerts me of this by making a comment about attracting women, as I unload the heat source I've trekked in from outside. Man, you must be beating the women off with a stick. You smell like that all the time? I have nothing better to do than ignore him. Let him continue watching television and thinking he's clever. I'd grown tired of his humor about the same time that I got interested in female anatomy. Now he's just another thing I have to deal with when I visit. Almost like a hospice, I come around at those times of year when it's socially unacceptable for me to be alone.
When the runts tire on command, the spinning stops. I've got 4 cups in me and a few extra pens.
. . .and shut down.
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