Where There's Filth, There's Necessity
Another proverb, another loser portrait. Also, more loser sex. Brace yourself! -Eds.
There was a man, let’s call him Digby.
Digby lived in a wrecked room in a large building full of other rooms that were not as wrecked as his. It was the type of bedroom that, if a mother were to walk into it, she would say:
There was a bare bulb, and the bed was also bare. No sheets—only the silky pink floral of the mattress where it peeked out from under piles of laundry, books and shoes. The shoes embarrassed Digby when he thought about them very hard, which wasn’t very often. Once in a while, though, when the sun would slant in through his dingy blue curtains at just the right angle, he would think to himself:
(The bare, sandy mattress was also a source of embarrassment--even of shame--for a woman named Linda who occasionally found herself layed down upon it, her ample bottom sliding indecently on its polyester surface. Oh Digby! she’d think silently, while reaching for whatever angular object happened to be digging into her back. The papercuts stung, but she never mentioned them. She never mentioned his pants, either. Were they made of burlap? They gave her a rash. Oh Digby! )
If, when he died, you had opened up Digby’s head, you would’ve found an exact replica of his bedroom, in miniature, nestled inside his skull. Linda always suspected that this would be the case, but she was never able to confirm it. If she had, though, she would have said:
There was a man, let’s call him Digby.
Digby lived in a wrecked room in a large building full of other rooms that were not as wrecked as his. It was the type of bedroom that, if a mother were to walk into it, she would say:
“A tornado must’ve come through here!”
Except that there had been no tornado, or if there had been, it had come through so long ago that nobody could remember its passing. There hadn't been a mother, either. No, this room had always been wrecked, and Digby had simply moved in, installed himself here in the same way a roach or a mouse installs himself. Out of necessity, that is.
There was a bare bulb, and the bed was also bare. No sheets—only the silky pink floral of the mattress where it peeked out from under piles of laundry, books and shoes. The shoes embarrassed Digby when he thought about them very hard, which wasn’t very often. Once in a while, though, when the sun would slant in through his dingy blue curtains at just the right angle, he would think to himself:
"People do not keep shoes in there beds. There is SOMETHING WRONG with this."
He’d stare at a rubber sole, crusty with salt and sand, and it would strike him as a symptom of something hidden and profound. Something serious and requiring attention, maybe. There would be a moment of panic, and he’d get that feeling you get when you discover one of your own toenails in the bathtub. Or when you finally notice some twitch or disgusting habit that’s been perfectly obvious to everybody else and not at all apparent to yourself. Recognition! And terror. Then it would pass. The shoe would be a shoe again, and the room a simple dwelling.
(The bare, sandy mattress was also a source of embarrassment--even of shame--for a woman named Linda who occasionally found herself layed down upon it, her ample bottom sliding indecently on its polyester surface. Oh Digby! she’d think silently, while reaching for whatever angular object happened to be digging into her back. The papercuts stung, but she never mentioned them. She never mentioned his pants, either. Were they made of burlap? They gave her a rash. Oh Digby! )
If, when he died, you had opened up Digby’s head, you would’ve found an exact replica of his bedroom, in miniature, nestled inside his skull. Linda always suspected that this would be the case, but she was never able to confirm it. If she had, though, she would have said:
"See? It was the ROOM that was wrecked. The ROOM!"
Oh, the room. Of course. Well done, Linda.
But, anyway, it's too late now. Digby's been buried at sea.
-Kathryn Rose.
posted by Esoteric Clique at 8:09 PM
1 Comments:
And after the first few days the neophytes, as they always did, would ask Master Phat if they were executing the exercises correctly? Master Phat, actually Rephat, twice blessed with light, would at this time, with a metaphysical gleam in his old gray eyes, always bob his head up and down. For Master Phat knew, what the neophytes would only ascend to with much theory and practice - Who is to know exactly what is pleasing to God?
Rose, kudos, this is your best piece, how do they say it in English, easily first. However, I suspect that a dissertation could be written comparing and contrasting your prior offerings.
As good as it is Rose I still have a slight nagging, a tenacity that will not let loose.
Snapping out,
D
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