the shovel story.

when the ghosts of me refuse to speak,
and in my dreams i watch tv
____Braid of Voices by DM Stith












iphone by .:*ghost*:.


he had no idea why he did it. many years later when he was a middle-aged nothing, the kid next door interviewed him for a highschool assignment and he'd say that the last thing he remembered seeing was a calender with most of the day blocked out. things to do things to do. to do. to do. in any case, he'd gotten up. knowing it was likely to be an important day he bothered to brush his teeth and wash his face. but that was all. he was still in his navy pajama pants wearing a tshirt that read on the front NOT ALL MIND ALTERING SUBSTANCES ARE BAD FOR YOU and on the back THE ECONOMIST when he walked into the garage and returned with a shovel. why a shovel? the kid later asked. what'dya mean why a shovel?
- i mean, doesn't it make more sense to get an axe or something?
- cause i didn't have one kid. that's what i found, that's what i grabbed. i wasn't really thinking it through like that ya know?
walked back into his bedroom and slammed it into the face of his white desk. truth be told it didn't do too much. splintered away at the chip board, shook the thing. papers fell to the ground. so he took a swing with it, hauling it back like a heavy baseball bat (slamming the wall behind him, the jiprock broke and a framed painting of women praying in Jerusalem fell to the ground) he swung it back around slamming the table from the side. one leg bent out of shape, but it was the end of the desk, that's for sure. three four kicks and heaving, panting it was done. looking right he saw the sliding doors of his wardrobe, he thought that'll be nice because it had glass on it, couldn't offer too much resistance one swing that was done for. he stopped and stared at his books a long while. but in the moment, who knows. could have been a minute could have been an hour. interestingly, it was the only thing left in tact when they found the place. his computer having been judiciously snapped in half and then bludgeoned, papers and folders everywhere, the couch with a knife through its heart.


*___*___*

- it means you don't know what you feel.
- i know how i feel.
- do you know what the name of your feeling is?
- yes.
- what is it?
- bad.
- i was thinking you could be more specific. like... disappointment, or, regret, or anger.
- ...
- ...
- nope.
- that's what i mean. you can't communicate to me what you're feeling.
- actually, i can. i can. i have this blog on the internet, where i pretty much spend all my time telling strangers who do or don't care about my feelings. i kinda feel crap about myself for it too.
- that's probably describing your feelings. is that what you're doing?
- yes.
- describe them now.
- ...
- ...
- it's a hallway. very plain. i walk to the end, i can only turn right. walk to the end, turn right again. and again. then i'm where i started.
- is that a feeling?
- yes.
- what's it's name?
- Gerald.
- very funny.
- i'm giggling.
- i can see that.
- but what is this feeling?
- i don't know. it's a kind of stifling no-air where the why the f&ck am i still here i thought we're done with this and no we're not we're stuck on the merry-go-round don't wanna be here i hate my tshirt why didn't i shave today what's the point of reading that saying hello goddammit i don't have any money left kinda feeling.
- name?
- Claudius.
- he was the good one right?
- yes.
- who was the bad-
- Nero.
- right right.
- you feel bad. you can't understand what the feeling is, so you can't fix it. half the time, i doubt you're depressed at all. i think you're maybe stressed, or disappointed, or regretful, or ashamed, and you don't know which. and because you don't know which, you don't know what to do about it. or know if it's a 'normal' bad-feeling. so it just stays.
- yes, but it's stagnant. it's rot. it smells. i can smell it. i can smell my own skin's unhappiness. everywhere i look i find hair and particles of skin. it's overpowering me.
- well, you need to be able to communicate with the feeling. you need it to introduce itself to you.


*___*___*

as i walk past i see a blue diabetes blood-sugar test strip on the ground. about a centimeter in length and a quarter of that in width. the colour of a meaningless sky. i haven't seen those in a while. whenever you'd come over there'd be a few around afterwards. they were your flower petals. like your hairs in my bed, or an occasional hairband besides my sink. after you left, i'd vacuumed. i've left your shampoo and other things as they are in the shower. there's a framed portrait of a sad looking cat that you said resembles me when i'm reading. but, the test strips were all gone. these test strips are more intimate. a little robotic chip with a dot of your sweetened blood on it. perhaps i am a hungry vampire, perhaps, this is my mid-afternoon snack. maybe i should pick it up and lick what's left. maybe i should pick it up and bring it to you.
instead i walk past, skirting around it. i refuse to pick it up, or interact with it. it's sacrosanct. it has to stay there.


*___*___*

- yes, but isn't this what your meds are for?
- not really.
- not really?
- no.
- i don't get it.
- the pills slow my brain down. so it's not soo erratic and jerky. they smoothe it out. that way, it doesn't fixate on negative things or create problems out of nothing. it's like static, static in my head, aberrations because it has too much, or too little neuro-energy-thingees.
- so...
- so, they keep me running smoothly. running smoothly, and functional. when i'm not erratic and static-y, then i don't get sad about random-nothing. and i don't have panic attacks about random-nothing.
- right.
- but if something tips me, the pills can't fix it. it's gone.
- is it gone now?
- no.
- where is it?
- around here somewhere.


*___*___*

i sit. in the afternoon. i can't tell exactly what time it is, the sun's gone behind some clouds it's suddenly darker. i watch an episode of Mad Men which helps me feel no-better but less alone. i eat KFC and giggle thinking about that episode of southpark. i take two pills washed with an energy drink. i had a friend in Israel, he'd always say: watch out for boredom. boredom's the mother of all naughtiness. i'm fine till i'm bored... after that... i sharpen my teeth on trouble. maybe he's right.
- hey, let's get high on something.
- no.
- no?
- no.
- ok.
- settled?
- yah. you make good points, forget i said anything.
- no prob.
- ...
- ...
- ...
- what you meant was 'let's go to the movies'.
- the movies?
- yah.
- is that what i meant?
- it is.
- c'mon. i'll buy you a frozen coke, you'll feel better.
- i will?
- you will.
- ok.
- settled?
- yah.
i come home and it's dark. i read something about economists being social engineers. i read three paragraphs about the origin of fiduciary duties: fiducia, from the Roman, it means "to trust". i fall asleep and wake up with a beard. black, puffy eyes. i get a haircut. transfer some money. get some KFC and come home. watch Mad Men, and giggle thinking about southpark. i take two pills washed down with an energy drink and realise that i just turned right for the third time in my hallway.

no one knows why he did it.
why he thought that it was a good morning to get a shovel and break everything.