I suppose I should be grateful for the way it intensifies experience. Everything scans as equally remarkable all day long all night long: heat, box, tissue, dust, lamp, cord, dust- bunny, glass edge, soap, wool, cotton, sunscreen, sun streaks, fan, taxi, train, duvet, book jacket, sweat, thigh, eyeglass, lipgloss, fingernail, granola bar, stick pin, air/con drip, blister, band-aid, smudge, towel, ant, grease, lotion, sheeting, hair elastic, cord, crumb – to start with.
And memories – which flood in at peak speed – barely time to nod to the one before the next crashes in, each with its emotional side-car. Positive self-talk collides with self-abnegation, collides with childish impulse, collides with old wounds and coheres – the whole mass, joined together, careens ever more precariously around what used to be ordinary corners. All day long the smells of mold and skunk and piss. A whiff of refrigerated air is a poor substitute for fresh.
What is it that brings up the panic? It’s just stuff, it’s just stuff in a slightly different arrangement than usual. It’s just an alternate version of cleaning or organizing or living. It’s not that neutral is what it is. It’s that all the stuff looks more like trash and, as a result, you’re closer to the existential cliff. What are we doing? We, with our individually decorated shopping carts full of trash, training through piss, shit and iron to work to make money to buy more and different shopping carts full of trash. Boxing it up, unboxing it, boxing it up again, moving along to the next pipe dream, each new corner awning a little more tattered than the last.