Awake
Awake
The clock on the white wall started buzzing. It was time for Gerald to wake up already. He had just closed his eyes five seconds ago—at least that’s how it felt. The eyes wouldn’t quite open, the body wouldn’t quite initiate the energy for his arms to maneuver his hands to the cold sheets and press upon them with half his might to leverage his body into the air and let him start this day, this nightmare, this dream, this journey from bed to bed, from AM to PM from start to stop and over again until his days were over and the eternal night could engulf him, enslave him, put him in captivity of darkness and denial and no contribution to the arts and society, friends and family which kept him going, breathing, living all these years, all these decades, this quarter of a century, a blink in his eye, a bullet in his pistol: still, this wasn’t enough to get him out of bed and down the stairs, to set the table, put water in the coffee machine, open his cereal, eggs in the pan, take the coffee out, spread the jam, and so on. And this was just the first part of his day, the easiest part of his day. There were numbers to dissect, people to dissuade, persuade, manipulate, errands to be run, cows to be milked, cars to be driven, screeches to be deflected to less sensitive areas by the powers-that-be. Oh, and then his head would softly fall on his goosy pillow, his eyes would shut and then? And then his eyes would open and the same damn thing would happen again and again and again until…until the monotony of his life would turn into even more monotonous death…
Today would be different. Today would be a new life. A new death. Today Gerald would change the order of his decayed state of being. He strolled down the stairs, head high, spirit low and proceeded to take the egg carton out of his narcissistic fridge. He splattered the eggs all over his body. One at a time. The first one on his head—he used it like a styling gel. He combed his hair all the way back, even spiked, and then proceeded to bring it forward in the style that our Hollywood starts of the early millennium preferred (think Hartnett). The next one dripped all over his naked chest, those stringy hairs oozing with yolky brilliance. It travelled further down his nubile and precious skin until it proved entangled with his curly pubes from Australia. By this time, the third egg caught up to the second and quickened the pace of this methodical descent (think of a rainy day from your childhood, driving in the back seat of your comfortable car, a raindrop on your window moving methodically down the pane, until a quicker raindrop catches up and joins: now the super raindrop moves faster than either had; same case for this egg of ours!) a little gets caught in the foreskin of your euphemism, but the rest travels south to our saurian legs, and finally to your feet, so you make footprints gingerly around the kitchen of unborn, unprocessed food/babies.
Gerald knew that this would be the last of a new day or first of an old one. His account depleted, his dreams dashed; now all he had were nightmares. Nightmares of others are more empowering to create then your own. You know it’s a dream. Do others?
Let’s start off on your drive, shall we, Gerald? Let’s start off on your commute.
Gerald noticed a school bus whimpering up Flower Street. He followed it as inconspicuously as he could. Always half a turn behind this behemoth, always slow on the accelerator but quick on the brake. Oh, how he followed it to the Elementary School. He’d be late for work but early for play.
Mrs. Jenson loved her homeroom more than she fancied her life. Her life: drab, depressed, useless, pointless. Her homeroom: booming with potential, intelligence, like an oil field undrilled, like a maple tree untapped. Please tap, please drill! Well, she proved herself a regular Canadian woodsman with a degree in Exon with her homeroom. She put on her helmet and got at those national resources. Until one fateful morning when Gerald showed up…with a grin…and an idea…and other things that we shan’t mention in this sordid tale.
After this detour to faux-academia, Gerald decided to take a lavish lunch over at his mother’s house. This was the day to end days (or start?). His mother, his poor mother, his broken hunch-backed Dickensian whore of a mother! The trip was short, as his death would be long. Long and cold. We already mentioned dark, right?
His mother was taken care of (notice the lowercase ‘m’) and Gerald’s gourney gontinued. His work was the obvious choice to finish his excursion into murky, gray waters. It was the denouement of a terrible, blood-worthy story.
He went in and saw his second family, his third friends, his fourth lovers and came to realize something. Something silent or violent? Only Gerald knows (and maybe an astute reader).
On Gerald’s last day on this Earth of ours, on this life of ours, he learned a thing or two (perhaps three?):
1. Mrs. Jenson could tap/drill into these young minds/bodies with four thousand dollars in her back pocket, which she can invest in books, maps, pencils, pens, papers, desks, windows! She can now show these children what life is about!
2. Gerald’s Mother (notice the capitalization on Mother) can be paid back what is owed: love and compassion for years of caring, of being there for a young, unsure Gerald.
3. His workers can gain access to the greatest resource of all: undying support in a coffee bean grind of a life.
Unfortunately, none of them accepted his gifts and were quickly (and relatively painlessly) eliminated.
Gerald woke up with a start the very next morning. His eyes popped right open. Kinetic energy was circulating in his arms, as he exploded out of his bed like a spaceship to the moon. His moon.
The clock on the white wall started buzzing. It was time for Gerald to wake up already. He had just closed his eyes five seconds ago—at least that’s how it felt. The eyes wouldn’t quite open, the body wouldn’t quite initiate the energy for his arms to maneuver his hands to the cold sheets and press upon them with half his might to leverage his body into the air and let him start this day, this nightmare, this dream, this journey from bed to bed, from AM to PM from start to stop and over again until his days were over and the eternal night could engulf him, enslave him, put him in captivity of darkness and denial and no contribution to the arts and society, friends and family which kept him going, breathing, living all these years, all these decades, this quarter of a century, a blink in his eye, a bullet in his pistol: still, this wasn’t enough to get him out of bed and down the stairs, to set the table, put water in the coffee machine, open his cereal, eggs in the pan, take the coffee out, spread the jam, and so on. And this was just the first part of his day, the easiest part of his day. There were numbers to dissect, people to dissuade, persuade, manipulate, errands to be run, cows to be milked, cars to be driven, screeches to be deflected to less sensitive areas by the powers-that-be. Oh, and then his head would softly fall on his goosy pillow, his eyes would shut and then? And then his eyes would open and the same damn thing would happen again and again and again until…until the monotony of his life would turn into even more monotonous death…
Today would be different. Today would be a new life. A new death. Today Gerald would change the order of his decayed state of being. He strolled down the stairs, head high, spirit low and proceeded to take the egg carton out of his narcissistic fridge. He splattered the eggs all over his body. One at a time. The first one on his head—he used it like a styling gel. He combed his hair all the way back, even spiked, and then proceeded to bring it forward in the style that our Hollywood starts of the early millennium preferred (think Hartnett). The next one dripped all over his naked chest, those stringy hairs oozing with yolky brilliance. It travelled further down his nubile and precious skin until it proved entangled with his curly pubes from Australia. By this time, the third egg caught up to the second and quickened the pace of this methodical descent (think of a rainy day from your childhood, driving in the back seat of your comfortable car, a raindrop on your window moving methodically down the pane, until a quicker raindrop catches up and joins: now the super raindrop moves faster than either had; same case for this egg of ours!) a little gets caught in the foreskin of your euphemism, but the rest travels south to our saurian legs, and finally to your feet, so you make footprints gingerly around the kitchen of unborn, unprocessed food/babies.
Gerald knew that this would be the last of a new day or first of an old one. His account depleted, his dreams dashed; now all he had were nightmares. Nightmares of others are more empowering to create then your own. You know it’s a dream. Do others?
Let’s start off on your drive, shall we, Gerald? Let’s start off on your commute.
Gerald noticed a school bus whimpering up Flower Street. He followed it as inconspicuously as he could. Always half a turn behind this behemoth, always slow on the accelerator but quick on the brake. Oh, how he followed it to the Elementary School. He’d be late for work but early for play.
Mrs. Jenson loved her homeroom more than she fancied her life. Her life: drab, depressed, useless, pointless. Her homeroom: booming with potential, intelligence, like an oil field undrilled, like a maple tree untapped. Please tap, please drill! Well, she proved herself a regular Canadian woodsman with a degree in Exon with her homeroom. She put on her helmet and got at those national resources. Until one fateful morning when Gerald showed up…with a grin…and an idea…and other things that we shan’t mention in this sordid tale.
After this detour to faux-academia, Gerald decided to take a lavish lunch over at his mother’s house. This was the day to end days (or start?). His mother, his poor mother, his broken hunch-backed Dickensian whore of a mother! The trip was short, as his death would be long. Long and cold. We already mentioned dark, right?
His mother was taken care of (notice the lowercase ‘m’) and Gerald’s gourney gontinued. His work was the obvious choice to finish his excursion into murky, gray waters. It was the denouement of a terrible, blood-worthy story.
He went in and saw his second family, his third friends, his fourth lovers and came to realize something. Something silent or violent? Only Gerald knows (and maybe an astute reader).
On Gerald’s last day on this Earth of ours, on this life of ours, he learned a thing or two (perhaps three?):
1. Mrs. Jenson could tap/drill into these young minds/bodies with four thousand dollars in her back pocket, which she can invest in books, maps, pencils, pens, papers, desks, windows! She can now show these children what life is about!
2. Gerald’s Mother (notice the capitalization on Mother) can be paid back what is owed: love and compassion for years of caring, of being there for a young, unsure Gerald.
3. His workers can gain access to the greatest resource of all: undying support in a coffee bean grind of a life.
Unfortunately, none of them accepted his gifts and were quickly (and relatively painlessly) eliminated.
Gerald woke up with a start the very next morning. His eyes popped right open. Kinetic energy was circulating in his arms, as he exploded out of his bed like a spaceship to the moon. His moon.
posted by neilly bojangles at 1:28 PM
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