a simple machine
just like me
There is a red blinking light on my office answering machine. It is trying to tell me I have several unread voicemails; voicemails I will never access because I do not know the password to listen to these voicemails and do not care to know it. Therefore the red light will continue to blink until the machine breaks or I do - and plastic lasts longer than flesh.
The office is quiet today, quieter than most Mondays. Lukewarm green tea sits to the right of my computer - it gave me a reason to leave my desk twenty minutes ago, and something to disdain now. It’s October, and kitschy Halloween decorations have been meticulously stuck to various doors and other blank surfaces.
“Find beauty in the mundane” screams the cute paper bat cutout taped to the electrical closet by my desk. I try. I do! In contrast to the roaring extravagance and crackling demand of life in the city, the mundane is a soothing balm.
The past few weeks I’ve been trying desperately to claw out of a cloud of depression and illness. I had fallen ill, once again, like a frail Victorian child. I’ve been inundating my body with all kinds of vitamins and herbs and elixirs in an attempt to rid it of whatever was making me feel terrible.
My immune system is fucked.
Perhaps it’s the fucked immune system, or the flourescent lights getting to my head, but I’ve been hit with an overwhelming sense of ennui that I cannot shake. I’ve been staring out of windows more frequently - slow zoom on an empty headed stare, some romantic music swelling in the background. I’ve been hit with a burning desire to change everything - run away from the beautiful mundane and cut my hair, take up a lover and a bad habit.
I know I haven’t utilized this newsletter in a while. I could apologize, but I don’t think you really care. Just another subject line in your inbox. Unless you do care, then I’m flattered.
Re-reading my last entries here is a bit painful. A year ago my heart was being twisted and torn apart - writing was a form of self-preservation. Now I am writing for nothing - not to make sense of something or to declare or heal, only to write.
I’d like to visit this feeling more often, writing for the void.
I’m not at my desk anymore. I’ve taken my post at The Hotel Chelsea, where I’m joined by familiar faces and a boulevardier to keep warm.
The red light continues to blink on my answering machine, asking for attention, Don’t I do the same?
A simple machine, it’s just like me.