so take off all your clothes...
I want a breakthrough. I want a lot of things. But right now, what I really want is another Pop Tart.
I just took my third bath of the week. I hadn’t bathed in six or so years, either a stand-up shower stall was all that was available, or time wouldn’t allow (and since when is it acceptable to invest so much authority in something as fleeting and invisible as time?) but recently I found myself with both a tub amply-sized for even semi-luxurious bathing and periods of time I feel would have disappeared had I not spent them submerged in sweet smelling, bubbly water. I think taking a bath is one solid way we can truly exercise our authority in this world. There’s something empowering about creating one’s own body of water, giving rise to one’s own island with one’s own rules and policies and statutes. It’s God-like to create, to sustain, and, with one quick maneuver that may involve lifting a lever or dislodging a C-town bag from one’s drain, to destroy. Bathing can also be therapeutic, giving one the opportunity to figuratively unload superfluous cares and stresses into the same water that will soon join millions of gallons like it in an amorphous mass of discard. Water is never really thrown away, but I don’t think about the repurification process. I don’t care what happens to my water after I’ve used and released it.
Bathing is intimate. All sorts of unloading, unleashing, disencumbering can be excised and released into one’s protective moat of bathwater. Aforementioned anxieties, primal urges, the contents of one’s bladder, even, and because the only judicial presence is created and upheld by you, the bather, no preordained judgment can exist. Of course the masochistic society that governs our sadistic world sticks its adulterated finger into our steamy broth no matter how opaque the shower curtain, but after a few shy attempts, you’ll soon find yourself bathing and in the singularity with which you were born.
Bathing is amniotic. Nothing else matters, nothing else has to exist. It certainly could, if one allows it to, but as the first time spent in the amniotic sac didn’t really extend much choice in the matter, why not resolve to the primal for a while? If “what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” since when are you so affected?
Sometimes I wish I could hold my breath for days. With few exceptions, mostly involving instances in the entertainment industry, very little activity ensues when one holds one’s breath, rendering them virtually dormant. I wish I could be dormant for days on end. I’d come up for air every three days or so, but aren’t we entitled to some time off? There’s something so peaceful about catatonia; I often wonder if the medical conclusions affirming the environmental awareness of comatose patients don’t simply exist for the well-being of their loved ones, to revise their purpose in life to acclimate to the new conditions. Reading to deaf ears is more reassuring than reading to dead ones. Regardless, those ‘trapped’ in comas never wear expressions of pain or agony, rather, they exude peace. They’ve peaced out and they want everyone to be aware of it, but instead of announcing their departure with a sign or party, they simply lie still until their lack of response garners them more attention than an outward shout. And yet a coma wouldn’t be for me—I’d rather the warm feeling of suspension, slight movement predicated only by the natural movement of all with which I exist.
It’s a shame we can’t eat Pop Tarts under water.