When one returns home
from a lengthy holiday, often is there felt a great and hollow
sensation; it is with no great ceremony that one is plopped back into
the homestead; indeed, there are no trumpets sounded, no banners or
announcements unfurled, no parade led; it is with a cool pomposity
that one returns home; no, in fact, not cool at all, it is a warm and
enveloping sensation, akin to walking through sluggish water barely a
half degree Celsius higher than that of one's own body temperature;
the difference is slight, but in its modicum is a noticeabley
terrible length, barely able to be grasped and yet inescapable. Like
the onward drudging march of time, like a child outgrowing its
favourite clothes that fit it not a year ago. One views familiar
sights, familiar walls, plaster, and of course cracks in said
plaster, unconsciously; aware only of the shapes these objects make
when one squints ones eyes as if peering into a dotted impressionist
painting; these things so dreadfully familiar, gazed over not one but
many too times in the idle moments that construct the day to day life
as to be rendered invisible; and yet, at the same time, with that
warm prickling wet itch, one is sharply aware of the discrepancies,
the flaws, as it were, in the floors; uneven steps one becomes
accustomed readily and with no small grace when one must pass over it
several times a day, on the way to and back from the kitchen, or
something, as it were; these discrepancies become hideously
noticeable, offensive to the senses. One's bathroom mirror; its
various streaks and spotted flecks unconsciously familiar, clinging
to the image of ones face is suddenly deemed disgusting; in fact, one
often gave a harsher treatment to the various hotel mirrors one has
encountered on ones journey; yet in comparison shine like Jupiter
next to Ganymede, a polished silver of most exquisite brightness. One
distinctly remembers cleaning the bathroom mirror to a sheen; it was
only in small steps that the spots and dots gathered one at a time to
finally make a picture grotesque.
The fantastical items one brings home; often chosen in fits of madness, or “impulse”, one decides in a final sort of way that this plastic figurine or tick-tack or whatever nonsense so perfectly slips into the mode of ones tastes, formulated and honed through ones life from indeed ones very birth; unshakeable and perfect nostalgia clashes with hip, chic choice; one decides in one moment to carry said unfathomably tasteless nick knack for the rest of ones natural term, to attach it to one's hip; but of course, when finally set out, against the backdrop of the burrow, the den, the living room; these items become at once pointless and gravely insignificant lumps of plastic; they seem to melt into the background of one's home, dissolved into its very blandness; indeed swallowed up by the normality of the setting, becoming irrevocably a permanent part of it. And one remembers with gravity visits as a child to strangers' houses, often littered with likewise said lumps of plastic that are held dear only to the homeowner; as a child one found these things bizarre, confusing, almost alarming; and yet observed they brought no bother to the homeowner; in fact the homeowner seemed comforted by their presence; and on rare occasions to the despair of all present would lift one up, turning it all round as if holding in their hand an artefact of great scientific importance, and claim it holding many a great memory for the owner; though of course the plastic remains silent in their hands.
The food is gone; there is no food, one usually remembers to use up or give away the last of the food before one leaves as to not let a crumb go to waste; consequentially one must then refill the stocks before being allowed to retire for the first time, upon returning home; no matter how long the journey was, how many miles and hours and noises withstood; one trudges to the supermarket, and grabs items at random; old, familiar, easy items, frozen pizzas, canned soup; and, having remembered the exotic food on ones journey; resolves to do away with old favourites, and to institute new and better foods; healthier foods; rice, maybe, and cinnamon and egg. For one is tired enough to want to change, for the better, but far too tired to adequately plan such a drastic improvement. And one grabs entirely too much for a basket (but of course not enough for a trolley) and takes it to the self serve aisle; and several times the automatic machine breaks down, out of malice or design; and out rings the artificial ringing of a digital bell; and the supermarket employee, a boy of endless hostile boredom and rakish limbs walks over and without listening to ones apologies or explanations swipes his card and hammers an unknown but obviously simple code into the numberpad and moves on, as if he had performed the manoeuvre a thousand times already that day; as if he too has become merely another cog in the supermarkets machines; a perfect robot that responds to the smallest tasks with the confidence and worldly know-how of its programmer.
--
written whilst tired and OD'ing on kafka
The fantastical items one brings home; often chosen in fits of madness, or “impulse”, one decides in a final sort of way that this plastic figurine or tick-tack or whatever nonsense so perfectly slips into the mode of ones tastes, formulated and honed through ones life from indeed ones very birth; unshakeable and perfect nostalgia clashes with hip, chic choice; one decides in one moment to carry said unfathomably tasteless nick knack for the rest of ones natural term, to attach it to one's hip; but of course, when finally set out, against the backdrop of the burrow, the den, the living room; these items become at once pointless and gravely insignificant lumps of plastic; they seem to melt into the background of one's home, dissolved into its very blandness; indeed swallowed up by the normality of the setting, becoming irrevocably a permanent part of it. And one remembers with gravity visits as a child to strangers' houses, often littered with likewise said lumps of plastic that are held dear only to the homeowner; as a child one found these things bizarre, confusing, almost alarming; and yet observed they brought no bother to the homeowner; in fact the homeowner seemed comforted by their presence; and on rare occasions to the despair of all present would lift one up, turning it all round as if holding in their hand an artefact of great scientific importance, and claim it holding many a great memory for the owner; though of course the plastic remains silent in their hands.
The food is gone; there is no food, one usually remembers to use up or give away the last of the food before one leaves as to not let a crumb go to waste; consequentially one must then refill the stocks before being allowed to retire for the first time, upon returning home; no matter how long the journey was, how many miles and hours and noises withstood; one trudges to the supermarket, and grabs items at random; old, familiar, easy items, frozen pizzas, canned soup; and, having remembered the exotic food on ones journey; resolves to do away with old favourites, and to institute new and better foods; healthier foods; rice, maybe, and cinnamon and egg. For one is tired enough to want to change, for the better, but far too tired to adequately plan such a drastic improvement. And one grabs entirely too much for a basket (but of course not enough for a trolley) and takes it to the self serve aisle; and several times the automatic machine breaks down, out of malice or design; and out rings the artificial ringing of a digital bell; and the supermarket employee, a boy of endless hostile boredom and rakish limbs walks over and without listening to ones apologies or explanations swipes his card and hammers an unknown but obviously simple code into the numberpad and moves on, as if he had performed the manoeuvre a thousand times already that day; as if he too has become merely another cog in the supermarkets machines; a perfect robot that responds to the smallest tasks with the confidence and worldly know-how of its programmer.
--
written whilst tired and OD'ing on kafka
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