Tuesday, August 14, 2012

The Kingdom of Closetopia

 He was my first guru, mentor, shrink if you like. He would lecture me on the benefits of what he called "self awareness" though in the same day he would talk of others' "psychobabble" so I was often left to think self awareness and psychobabble were intrinsically entwined. Still, I was an apt student, a devotee, an "awareness junkie", which, I would posture, eventually led to my downfall, as even I didn't really want to know ALL my secrets.

Fat David (hey, bikers have nicknames that fit them so yes, he was fat indeed) had this little exercise he called "rummaging through the closet", wherein the subject (always me surprisingly enough) would blindly leap into his or her "personal closet of historical wonders", lay hold to one's writhing mass of nurotical intimacies, and randomly choose a few to extricate and put on public display. As I have virtually nothing substantive to accomplish at the moment, I would be happy to demonstrate.

Closing my eyes as directed, I will now lean forward and reach directly into the heart of my closet. One would think that the individual items would be unidentifiable as they are all pretty much identical, but one would be mistaken. As a long time closet user and a rather natty one at that, I happen to know the positions and placements of each of my many tucked away traumas, and every tiny protrusion, every hideous mangling, every lump bump and bruise of my myriad of skeletons are forever carved (with a dull and painful poultry shears blade) into millions of memory cells within my moderately capable brain.

Why, the first one I touched, within a breath I knew it was skeleton #234, the “damned water fountain sprayed way over the edge and now I have a wet spot in my crotch so I have to go home and call the school nurse (pretending to be my mother) to let her know that I (he) am (is) sick and won’t be back until my pants dr…err… until I (he) feel (s) better” skeleton. How can I tell you ask? The crotch is still wet; not that I don’t have other wet crotched skeletons mind you, but as this was a relatively minor trauma I can feel only a slight temperature increase due to flush caused by self humiliation.

I agree, too easy. I’ll try another. Hmmmm, no, no, some skeletons are here for a reason, let’s just say it’s number 6 and let it go at that. Another? Oh here’s one! I call him Malicious Mikey. He’s kind of a multiple use skeleton, he houses any number of rude awakenings and embarrassing secrets, all of which are linked to each other by the thread of ex-wivelihood.

Like the time I was daydreaming I saw my second ex wife standing on the street with her 35th new husband the Jolly Troll, Magnus Obliviousson, and I was driving a great big eighteen wheeler and I tooted the horn a couple times so they’d stop and stare and I put that face on that scares the hell out of people when I get cranky at the grocery store. And then, laughing like I almost never do in real life, I gunned the truck and ran her over, making her very, very sad indeed. In fact I jumped out of the truck and ran back to her tire tracked body and she was just about to say “geez, I really regret what I did to….” and then she died, so like I have no idea if she regretted what she did to me or Freddy “Popeye” Brown or the Mags the Jolly Troll or the damn teenage mail room guy at Business Incentives! And I want it to be MEEEEE!!!!!!

Like the fact that I ran over my ex wife wouldn’t be secret skeleton enough, but then suddenly I was overwhelmed with a flood of guilt for
1. Not having moved on already for God’s SAKE!!!
2. Even thinking about killing someone (what a horrid person am I)
3. Having not been enough for her in the first place, God I’m pathetic
4. Having felt guilty about something that was just for fun and not meant to be truly mean in any way
5. Shedding a single tear while being overwhelmed by the thought of my meanness
6. The act of shedding the tear which is egregiously anti-macho and will most certainly make my testicles shrink in shame (yet one more time).

Now I’d have to admit to the fact that I’ve killed or otherwise flagrantly annoyed my ex wives in my daydreams dozens of times; so as you can see, Malicious Mikey the skeleton has gotten a lot of use and hold perhaps a thousand related not for public perusal tidbits of secret sludge.

Another? Ok, one last one, but don’t be surprised if it’s not so funny. Skeletons aren’t always a barrel of laughs you know. Are you sure you want another? Alright. Obviously I jinxed myself, this is skeleton #4. I can easily tell because he’s bigger than most, and the moment I touch his form he grabs my arm and tries to haul himself back into my life. He’s one of the reasons I generally don’t do inventory, I just leave the closet door shut and let the bones lay. I wrote a short poem about him once, as it says his name in brevity, rather than using the horridly verbose script that I am known for. He is called

Ritual

It amazes me at least as often as it happens
that at times
even when my life is good
even when there is absolutely nothing in the way of my
simply being happy
if I just let it be


If given the choice I'd choose
death

funny stuff that
funny stuff


I agree, I should have stopped at two.

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