Layin’ here, my brain paralyzed, like it’s takin’ an extended holiday on Long Island or something, a loud clash of cords bein’ crunched escapes my stereo speakers and for once I can barely hear the noise comin’ offa the streets below my window, as outside Saturday night rushes into a grand finale of stupidity: the hordes of wanna be good timers fresh outta the nightclubs dancin’ off their illusion of excitement, the cops high on adrenaline arrestin’ kids for misdemeanors and Sunday morning seems destined to arrive even if I don’t want it to.
Unfortunately all I can manage to surmise is I gotta god damn headache again, though my lungs are also wheezin’ and actin’ feeble. Only I know I knocked off at least ten aspirin in the last five hours tryin’ ta put a dent in this tedious bit-a-numbness that’s decided to visit my mind.
The bed sheet’s wrapped around me, the comforter’s kicked to the floor, the pillows strategically positioned at various stations of the cross. I really just wanna go to sleep. But sleep eludes me, has for some time now, like it’s abruptly become unavailable in this part-a-town. Or maybe some cable television conglomerate has suddenly figured out how ta make a few dollars off of sleep and it’s now a pay per view type a deal.
Yet for some reason I’m startin’ to consider that maybe what I got – this layin’ here, half conscious, half despondent with a little bit-a-discontent thrown in – is what you’d call a healthy case of inertia. Though if I’m to believe the dictionary’s definition inertia is a resistance or disinclination to motion, action, or change, and I don’t know if I’m really so disinclined or even resistant; but rather unable.
The CD has stopped playing, the blinds covering the window rattle with the wind, my neighbor bumps the wall and I stare at my reflection in the darkened screen of the TV set that’s at the end of the bed.
You’d think that there’s more to life than this.
Only with the view from where I’m layin’ it appears as if a good percentage of my social interactions, at times, are strained, my insurance company doesn’t want to give me any money for my wrecked car, my apartment building continues to deteriorate into more and more of a hellhole as my neighborhood resembles Beirut in its heyday and for some reason my lungs continue to fill with goo in a relentless merry-go-round of medication and doctor visits that ultimately leaves me layin’ in bed starin’ at my TV.
Yet as if all that wasn’t enough:
A former associate of mine goes on retreat to a Zen Monastery, but continues to shoot dope in secret, finally coming home a zealot, thinkin’ meditation is gonna help ’im keep clean. Now his new found devotion and dedication are just as ingrained as the lies that persist in comin’ outta his mouth.
The big C, as in cancer, is dancin’ a morbid tango all through a close friend’s body. I can only be there as support, I can only return the friendship that this man has given me, ultimately I can only bear witness, and whatever happens I know that it was meant to be.
My two closest friends can’t be honest with each other. There so much unresolved anger between them that I constantly feel like a referee. When the time comes that I’m expected to start delivering their written messages, well, that’ll be the time that I walk away – cause just maybe my friends unhealthiness is symptomatic of my recent condition.
Rolling over I notice that the depression in the middle of the bed is becoming a familiar comfort; yet there was a time, when I’d first become single, where I’d still sleep on “my side” of the bed. And then one day wakin’ up and lookin’ across that great expanse of unused futon I slid over and it’s as if I’ve never moved since.
Thankfully pillows have no permanent memory and can be fluffed up, though it’s nice to have someone to fluff them for you. However I never seem to take the time to fluff them, instead they end up lumped together as supportive wedges that I can nestle my neck into as I stare at the ceiling.
Somewhere in the back of my mind the 15 year old kid says turn on the television, but the 49 year old that’s suppose to be me knows what a waste of time that’ll be and just fingers the remote like it’s gonna help.
The clock on the desk reads and as always I’m thinkin’ that the night is young, whatever that means. Rarely do I get to bed before , and then at two it’s the pillows, the comforter, the sheets, the bed and I’m rollin’ tryin’ ta find the right spot like I’ve somehow misplaced it tonight.
Only like I said the right spot hasn’t been here for a while and what comes instead are the memories. Some pleasant, some not; like running into that woman today that I hadn’t seen forever and not knowin’ what to say and now I’m kickin’ myself over whether or not I came off rude. And if that’s not good enough, or more to the point, not uncomfortable enough, then some murky past transgression will worm its way outta my brain and viola! It all gets turned up a notch and then once you let those floodgates open all the irreverent and embarrassing moments that I thought that I’d dealt with come crawlin’ over ta sit down beside me and cuddle up.
Maybe the television wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all?
Maybe a lobotomy would help?
A siren’s wail interrupts the night as a cop car speeds by outside, its flashing lights reflect on the bottom of my window’s blinds. My neighbor, obviously just as restless as I am, bumps the wall again as the wind continues to blow. Across the room the blinds rattle and sway and as I lay here lookin’ up my ceiling looks just the same as it always does.