Have you ever known you were
going to break something? Really known it? It’s always in the worst place
possible, the house of a little old lady, somewhere important. Because there’s
always too much precious stuff, crammed into a small place (a bungalow the size
of a shoebox, a flat the size of the Sylvanian families’ gypsy wagon), too many
things placed precariously, too many things that seem to operate with their own
unique system of rules. And so many table cloths, not just one, but one under-tablecloth
and one over-tablecloth that looks like a large, less strainer-like
doily, so that the under-cloth shows through. If pushed on the matter, two
tablecloths is probably enough, you might conclude. Well, hold the fucking
phone because apparently there are people who would disagree with you. Why stop
at two? That person thought. Yeah, the clue, was in the fact that they didn’t
stop at ONE. So, now add a pot plant and a crystal bowl. And add some rules for
the tablecloths. Write these rules in a tiny notebook with a cover made from
recycled paper with dried flowers pressed into the front (don’t tell me you
don’t know the sort I mean) and hide it inside a small box with a clown
figurine stuck to the top. You’ve read the rules, obviously, so you know that
the tabletop decorations, those things, the plant pot and the crystal bowl, get
put away when you’re eating, of course. You don’t know where, because you
haven’t looked for the tiny rulebook that tells you specifically about tabletop
trinkets yet, (no it isn’t in the same notebook as the tablecloth notebook,
don’t be deliberately obtuse). In fact, it’s hard to even look around because
you’re so afraid of breaking things. There are so many trinkets, you’re afraid
you’ll open your eyes, and just knock one over with the movement of your
eyelashes. It could be the butterfly effect at work, but in a dangerously
chintzy way. Next -- pay close attention --
the eating-tablecloth comes out to cover up the other two. It’s
not for aesthetic value, it’s purely practical. Don’t get the wrong idea. Only
a mad person would have two decorative tablecloths and cover them up with a
third decorative one for no reason. So it’s three tablecloths, got that? And
maybe as well as the fact you’re crammed into a space full of trinkets, and
lots of obviously well-established rules regarding the use of particular
cleaning cloths, pot scourers and tea towels, there’s an atmosphere where
people are telling you to relax, or if not telling you, intimating that you
should. Because this is a lovely place and there’s no reason to be so anxious.
In fact, you’re also trying to tell yourself, (probably in the same voice a
masseuse once used to tell you to ‘relax’, when you were obviously indicating through your bodily
awkwardness that you really weren’t relaxed in the way you should be): You
should relax here, see how cosy this place is with all its little jars
and teacups and trinkets? Everything stashed away in its own place! No space
for a single thing more! Not, unless, you broke something, of course. Then the
thing you broke would open up a huge trinketless void, which no amount of
trinkets or old-lady tea cups or ugly clown boxes could fill. Because YOU broke
something, and now you’re the worst person in the world. There’s that
inescapable feeling again, you’re going to break something. You know you’re
going to do it, there’s almost no point telling yourself to be careful, because
that isn’t how these kind of premonitions work. Maybe, it’s just that there’s
not enough room, not enough room for you, you’re the one thing too many, and
there’s no special space here for you here.
No comments:
Post a Comment