White tiles and mildewed grout sweat from cold humidity. Soggy, newly-applied caulking begins to pop its seal from the base of the faucet. An empty Suave shampoo bottle and tube of cheap, hypoallergenic facial wash gather condensation on the edge of the tub.
The window high on the shower wall looks out onto 101, the screen vibrates with the spinning of a tiny cocoon amid the hopscotch of spiders stitching flies, and beholds the Smith river rather vaguely rushing underneath the morning mist. Crows caw in the rain, the neighbors shower next door, the pipes hiss inside our shared wall. A toilette flushes far away. The T.V. downstairs mumbles gayly, the inaudible voices are like the voices in dreams, like this one, like today.
. . .
I woke up this morning and promptly mounted it — a wild horse bucking, furious, resolved to shake me off and kick me in the ribcage.
This day doesn’t seem to want me tucked away snugly within its shade. It plays at elimination — do away with all the familiar hiding places. This pain of being threshed and beaten against the floor brings a fleeting clarity. What the days of my life could yield with this unobstructed vision — to be productive, working in the light of day, normal and unassuming, indifferent to the setbacks of ability and accessibility, crimson justice?
But, what to do with the outside, how to manifest myself into the bright lights of community…when I’m photosensitive? The light blisters, causes unpleasant cellular reactions. If the sublime, teaching suffering could get it over with and flash all of its intended purpose into my brain opening up to receive necessary information, like pupils dilating and constricting painlessly in the beams.
I have a cataract blinding my third eye, now a glazed white orb that fears death and fruitlessness, it’s brittle like a ground cherry husk and grown weary. If I could shed the husk like a snake sheds skin — though, I don’t think I could do it at will. My luck, the shedding of that dead membrane will catch me by surprise like an existential incontinence, relief coming on like a stream of urine soaking the crotch of my khakis. It’s an inconvenient truth — why does enlightenment take the humiliating route? Down the road of ‘crazy’?
. . .
There’s a pressure in my head and it threatens to overload the motherboard — restraint will only fry the circuits. My imagination’s on the verge of soaking the fabric of collective consciousness with its content.
How long can I hold it in? We’re all speeding down a chaotic, bumpy interstate. In public spaces we’re all blind and grasping for one another, for someone or something that makes sense. The chasms of coffee shops, galleries, poetry readings, shows — they seem bottomless, I feel lost.
What if I have nothing to cover myself with, nothing fresh to change into?
THE INTERNET! (problem solved, potentially)
This whole intimate process can unfold safely and neatly under the sweatshirt of cyberspace. Yeah, my brain can tie that around its waist, buying me time to spin a cocoon. Metamorphosis is safer on the inter-webs than it is in physicality, offline.
But, just give it time.
I’ll pay for the expression of my inner world, for my broadcast metamorphosis. I’ll be rooted out, from whatever rock I’m typing under, and made into an example, my precious silk and essential creative fluids harvested to weave clothing for trolls and literary vampires. But more likely than that, my humiliation will do nicely as entertainment for the goodly townspeople, to behold my freakish and pathetic “in-between” form.
The risk of unobstructing the third eye, it’s this point of no return, and everyone’s on to you.
. . .
Something achy and afflicted buzzes at the fringes of this morning, as it’s done for the past 5 years. It knows that I think I need it.
The media of radiation, microphones, cameras, keypads, and voices — the more recent social investment, calls me away from this real, minute-by-minute musing from the bathroom, toward the iPad.
The urge to get on Facebook, get back to the blog, accelerates. A firewall erected last decade finally shows its cracks.
Eyes peek through.
The human unconscious is outgrowing its warm and insular internet environment. It knows it can’t live there forever. The internal frenzy shoves all realization clear to the back of the mind’s broom closet.
Why, just beyond the margins of Facebook, there’s an outcropping of interests in the last stages, they call out like they’re some dire medical needs — if we don’t have them met we could just die. But, when the supply is cut and the server’s down for one week, two, three — for months, when the provider won’t supply the juice, the modem no longer turns on, and the internet is declared legally dead, nobody is any deader, not really.
Off the books there’s the usual occurrence of illness, death. Shriveling and fracture happen much more slowly — it’s especially uneventful, yet it is special, it is worth the wait.
It’s back to being snails on the side of the highway. It’s back to being crows tearing merrily and lonely at carrion. It’s back to courting eros behind pricker bushes, in parked cars, on quiet and out-of-the-way Metropark paths. It’s back to salvaging recyclables from the landfill and brushing hands with you, passing the work time by talking passionately about non-important things, occupied with whatever it is that happened before the insidious, technologically-enhanced narcissism ate the animus right out of dreaming. And before long, things are back to the ways they were before a singular public opinion cast its mythical shadow over individual intellects, convincing them of their inadequacy.
We’ve outgrown the market for shrinks.
In shrinking back, further into the caves of our disassociations, we’ll reemerge from our third eyes and return as animals.