Nothing beats the hypnotic mechanical movements
of the Friden calculators at Consolidated Life
after a week of testing spiritual resilience with Hallmark Christmas flicks.
And it wasn’t even in Technicolour—although, come to think of it,
that might actually be part of the reason
for its soul-restoring power.
I don’t remember who I wanted to be. I remember who I was,
day after day, waiting for something comforting, like the thought
that if I change the way I write, I will change the way I live,
or maybe the other way around, even though I knew it wouldn’t last
—it never does. By no means did I expect solace to be so cheap
yet unrequitable, like concessions made before turning off
the bedside lamp.
I cried the first time you did it. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw your pubic mound—stripped of hair, skin chemically burned because you used some horrible depilatory cream. All the photos I had seen of victims of chemical attacks during the Great War flashed before my eyes. I bet you didn’t even notice. I begged you never to do that again. Same with shaving your legs and armpits. To no avail. Your excuse was the comfort but also the embarrassment of being seen in public with a hairy body, with emphasis on the latter. I have never understood that. I like body hair. I couldn’t wait for winter, because then you wouldn’t pay much attention to shaving since you were wearing pants and long sleeves anyway. But as soon as the sun began to shine brighter, you always returned to these barbaric rituals. And why? Because of some bizarre social—i.e., male—norm imposing a quasi-paedophilic image on women? Or maybe women are doing this to themselves of their own volition; perhaps they are the ones who actually incite each other, since I sincerely doubt I’m the only one who enjoys playing with short and curlies.
hidden pilcrow 