Another Reason To Live

So this is it, the end of the decade, the end of the experiment, the end of this madness. Two more days, I can not wait! Things are really starting to unravel here now. I hope I can last that long. To quit now, so close, would be a travesty of monumental proportions with a significance that would spawn aftershocks throughout humanity. I can hang on. I think. I took a look in the mirror today, and what I saw there was not pretty. Except for my ‘Hair Pretty’, that is. I have not shaved or showered since Christmas Eve. My eyes looked like sunken flat pieces of glass, the button eyes of a snowman that were pressed in too deep by insensitive thumbs. My hair was sticking up at some crazy angle on the side, but flat on the back of my head. There seemed to be a new scab just over my right eyebrow. I have been wearing the same thermal undershirt for a couple of days, and it was pocked with a variety of stains, coming in almost every color imaginable, and a good number of shapes as well. I had to look away quickly. I could get away from my reflection, but I can not get away from my aroma. I tell you this not to brag, or to attempt to amuse you, but I most surely am beginning to smell funny. And as the saying goes, ‘Not funny Ha Ha’. I would take a shower, but I feel I haven’t the strength or interest. My next meeting with my editor is not until tomorrow night, and I would prefer to just lay atop my filthy pile of blankets, pull my knees up to my chest, and rock back and forth moaning. So I shall. I would take a nap if I could, but my stomach is too upset to allow me to fall asleep. And then there is the issue with my knee, but that is another story for another time. I hope you people appreciate this, what I am doing for my art. My medium : The Human Life! I can make it, break it, bend it, fold it, I could even end it. I almost had, a good number of times during this particular project, but whenever I would get near the edge, I would only have to recall my mother’s face and voice, and I would remember why I’m here and what I’ve been doing all this time. I could almost hear her speaking to me : “Can I microwave you a waffle, Hon?” as she sweeps the cat litter off of the kitchen counter with the grey, sad dishrag. I could almost see her, the strong maternal figure clad entirely in plaids, hunched over a dark steaming kettle of broccoli and Brewer’s Yeast in the kitchen, bandana tightly wrapped over her precious skull like some antebellum black mammy gone somehow awry. It is to earn the pride of sweet dear mother that I continue to do this, and it is for this reason, if not for any other, that I shall see this through to whatever wretched ending is in store for me. For my story too is hers, and hers mine. Just as I have her high blood pressure and crooked arthritic fingers I also have her desire, need, to make the world a better place, if even only a tiny bit. Where she brings joy to the people at the homeless shelter with her boxes of fudge, I will bring happiness to the masses with my gift of literary mastery. It’s the same thing really, when you think about it. Fudge, fiction – fiction, fudge. It’s the philanthropic high we both get helping people. Where she is a sorceress of the saucepan, I am a wizard of the word written. I always felt like she should have written a book herself. Could she ever tell a tale! I used to wake up early on Saturday mornings to sit by her side while she plucked a chicken in the living room just to hear her tell her fascinating stories of life in the big city! Little Rock, Arkansas in the forties! What a crazy time it was, sure, but the way SHE told it, it was just like you were right there in the front of the bus with her, as she asked her ol’ grandma, her darling, innocent little face sending confused glances towards the rear of the vehicle, "Why are niggers so stupid"?! I know she could fill volumes with her recipes too. Her carrot and black bean tofu dip is to die for! I suppose that will be another project I’ll take on as soon as I can : cataloging all the exotic ingredients in that food before she is dead and drags the secrets with her into that grave. She would do it herself if she could, she is very proud. Unfortunately, she is entirely illiterate. I am happy to help, and this will be a very rewarding collaboration for the both of us. Plus, like I always tell her - "You can still go back to school and learn to read and write! Surely you can't be the oldest student getting her GED - You're only 82 years old, for Pete's sake!" She may just surprise us all and write her own book yet. So it was with the mental framed, glossy three by five of Mother proudly displayed on the fireplace mantle of my consciousness I began to wonder: Is the liquor store open for business yet? I decided to say ‘fuck it’ and just keep wearing my dirty clothes another day longer. What difference could it make at this point? I was not attending Fashion Week in Milan. Not for another month or two. I had nothing to lose, and nobody to impress, but I went ahead and put on my pants anyway, I could not afford another indecent exposure charge, even in the name of fine literature. As I began to insert a toe into the leg of my rancid jeans, I had a brilliant idea: My Snuggie Sack! That’s the ticket. Then I will not have to bother with those troublesome buttons, or a shirt at all, for that matter. I kicked my pants away in disgust and found my onesy right where I left it, under the program to the opera I had attended a few weeks earlier with Jennifer Connelly. As her panties drifted out of one of the leg holes of my furry pink jumpsuit I wondered: What was she doing right now? I also guiltily reminisced for a moment – What a fine evening that was! I promised not to kiss and tell, so faithful readers, my journalistic oath dictates I must leave your imagination to fill in the blanks. I can however tell you this: Several trips were made to the local Farmer’s Grange for D-rings, a blue tarp, and live baby chicks. I was thus clad as I stumbled down my stairway, made my way to the front door, and took a deep breath before opening the door and allowing the light of day to illuminate my horrible face.