Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Why do I feel like I have to take care of this fucking thing? And how can I call a mermaid a “fucking thing”? I’ll find the answers to all this and more in my co-dependency handbook. “But for now, a massage would be great,” is what Donna says. Donna's my other self who has a bunch of splatter paint art and a recipe for super-chewy brownies and a membership to…a membership to a Children’s Museum.
When I refer to the splatter paint art I’m talking about those 1980s paintings that look like someone sneezed turquoise and purple, as if someone sent a Kandinsky to get a makeover at Esprit.
It belonged to my SISTER who made a great sojourn in order to solve the Israel/Palestine conflict through performance art, leaving the mermaid in my possession. But I, who have lived in 5 apartments in 4 years, most of which have resembled the shed in "A Beautiful Mind", am not a CANDIDATE for this kind of BURDEN. What exactly IS the burden?
Last night on "Hoarders" they found 36 cats in a woman's apartment, thirteen of which were dead. The woman kept saying, "I couldn't get to them!" and that's my fear, is just to give up the effort, to not move the mermaid, to be buried in mermaids, and not even reach for the Titanic-like locket that's no longer in view because shit like that doesn't happen. Lockets don't fall into the middle of the sea when you're trapped. Most likely, you'll see, in a tiny crack of space between two heavy mermaids, the flipper of a man on a team of rescuers, and you'll barely hear him gargle something to his partners, "I checked, and no one was there," and then, "Oh shit, you guys. I found a locket!"
That last paragraph? That's what BORIS would say. Boris is my inner pessimist, and coincidentally, the name of a contestant on this season of "Hell's Kitchen".
Now I have this guilt-infused relationship with a statue. Oh, excuse me, a COFFEE TABLE. In another life, the mermaid was a coffee table. She lived in New York and there was a glass piece that went on top and it shattered when my sister tried moving the mermaid to Minneapolis. Then Los Angeles. Then Rome. Not Rome, but I would add that if I had a web site for the mermaid. And Tokyo.
It would say:
Then there would be a button for merchandise but what the hell would I sell since mermaids don't wear clothes. This one doesn't even have a coconut bra, she's like a wolf, just hanging out with her boobs.
Maybe I could sell something to make the mermaid more accessible, like a Justin Bieber wig.
Wait, what am I talking about? Oh, that's right, misery.
Misery loves coconuts.
Now she’s sitting in front of my door, her arms extended…that’s another awful thing about her. She’s in a position of constant vulnerability.
“If she’s a steel mermaid, wouldn’t she drown?”- my friend Gabe.
Do you know last night I had a dream I was in a hallway made of vanilla frosting, and a voice said, “See? Now you can’t hear the babies screaming.” Thank you, Tylenol PM and/or childhood.
For all of it.