Friday, 12 June 2009

• so...i started writing this story...tell me what you think.

   

  It is 3a.m. and I am lying on the shower floor. I stare up into the single light above me, wondering if the complexities of my life could be resolved with the flick of the hot water switch. I don’t know why I lie on the shower at all hours of the night, it must just be because there’s something seemingly poetic about lying on the shower floor, completely clothed and dry, at 3a.m. I must like doing it so much because I’ve always wanted to be a poet, but have never had any inspiration. Maybe I’m lying here to find that one perplexing thought that makes you jump up and say "that’s simply poetic, allow me to astound the world with my shower-floor poetry".

  A fly buzzes around the light.

  Flies, flies,

  flies and lies,

  lie to flies,

  the flies will die.

  Neurotic poetry. Very Sylvia Plath. Very abstract. The anti-Walt Whitman. Beautiful. Something that could get published in the asylum newspaper. Perrfect.

  My feet bump the nozzles at the head of the tub. There’s something to question: who got to decide where the ‘head’ of the tub was...and if it has a head, then why doesn’t it have an ass?’ I have a head and an ass, why can’t the bathtub. The same goes for cars. Who got to declare them female?

  Switch on, switch off. Hot, cold. The water runs into the drain between my legs. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be with a man, to have him rushing between your legs like water in a tub.

  I get out of the tub and walk to my bedroom to retrieve the phone. I want to call Richard. I met Richard my freshman year in college outside the admissions office and have thought him to be simply astounding ever since.

  The funny thing about Richard was that he was never totally involved with anything. Most people you see outside the admissions office were usually waiting to have a meeting with a professor or somebody of great importance that was about to waltz out of the building any minute, but Richard was just sitting on the curb, smoking a cigarette. He had this pull about him, the way pheromones make animals mate when in reality they have no sex drive. It was like something invisible told me to be late to my Shakespeare course and sit on the curb with him.

  "Where you off to, Bookworm?"

  I blushed. I always carried most of my books with me at the time, since I still wasn’t sure of what buildings housed what and was always afraid of being late.

  Another notion that strikes me as odd is time. I’ve read The Time Machine and heard about the fourth dimension, which is time, but it just doesn’t make sense to me. Time is supposed to be divided equally, but then time flies when you’re having fun. Time seems to be doled unequally, to me.

  I drag the phone back to the bathroom and resettle myself in the tub. I check my watch, 3:15.

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