Picking Up (In) This Mess

I knew I both was and was not my age when I said to myself, “Okay, you’re going to clean your room and then you get a popsicle” — OUT LOUD; I lay on my bed, my body woven between piles of clean laundry and held my phone to my heart as “MOOD 4 Eva played through the speakers; I grabbed an album of photographs taken when me and my dear friend Elo road tripped through France, Italy, Slovenia, Croatia, Montenegro, Albania, and Greece and placed it in a section of children’s books on the shelf between Where the Wild Things Are and Oh, the Places You’ll Go; I was distracted from the reality that there are 8-year-olds getting a shower for the first time in weeks who don’t know where their parents are and that if we don’t institute sweeping global policy to combat climate change during this next administration we’re fucked but I have hope that the revolution will not be televised; I watered two windowfront plants by splitting what remained of the water in my 16 oz water bottle between them and stopped there; I considered the black and white photo of my grandparents on their wedding day and wondered if my grandpa looked happier in the wedding photos from his two future marriages; I commented “<3 u Obamas” under Barack’s Instagram post listing 44 songs from his and Michelle’s Summer Playlist 2019; I listened to the Dirby Bros “Drift Away because it was in said Obama playlist and the lyrics “day after day I’m more confused / yet I look for the light through the pouring rain” made me cry and I tasted salt as I tucked pairs of my socks together and mouthed every word to the rest of the song until the end; I went to change the lightbulb of an IKEA lamp that had gone out and cursed IKEA for weird Swedish lightbulbs and remembered I‘d seen an extra Swedish lightbulb in a basket I’d relocated and praised myself for stashing another one away when in reality IKEA is capturing us with their socialist capitalism or democratic socialism or whatever it is and I made a note to buy a rug and basket the next time I was there; I realized the blue light in my throat, the supposedly repressed part, does not feel that way today; I unplugged and put away my Nintendo Switch that I bought on impulse the winter of 2016 because rescuing Zelda seemed easier than everything else; I found The Complete Idiot’s Guide for Training for Triathlons, the whereabouts of which I’d considered just a couple of days before and I made a promise to leave it out to look at training advice if I want to get serious about the whole thing then got annoyed that the book was lying around when everything else was going to a place, so I put it on the bookshelf where I promptly forgot it lived until this exact moment writing this; the sound of Jose Gonzales’ voice and guitar accosted me with nostalgia for life in Spain and I felt like my heart would bleed through my tear ducts and be sucked down the veins of my legs into the soil of the earth which at least is closer to the polaroids in my mind; I contemplated the benefits of bar soap versus liquid soap in the following ways: as a guest at a party right after using the bathroom or chopping dates for a summer salad, how visible the soap shelf actually is while standing at the bathroom sink with hands dripping wet, the amount of space a soap dish leaves on the rim of a sink versus a liquid soap bottle, how plastic soap bottles and their pumps never decompose and everyone should buy bar soap forever; the lyrics “I, I can’t deny I’m paralyzed from the inside / Every day I wake to feel the same / And every time you ask me how I’m feeling / I just smile and tell you that I’m fine… Whoa oh” didn’t seem to resonate with the happy vibe of the instrumentals and I got stuck unraveling that;

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