(Segment 4)
Hard caps of skin – my fingers in name, speak their names; Richard, Tom, Jone, Alfred, Maxacopolopus – are intwined in active memory decay. I am forgetting as I try to remember. Most solidly; “Some things just need to be electric”. Yes. Poignant.
Pulsating blood vessels fill my eyes and make my eyes pulse as well. Growing swelling growing swelling swelling growing swelling. Don’t skip a beat beat on the door until you are left with a bloody stump in place of your hand. Shake your bloody stump skyward and blame someone else for your repeated bang bang bangings on the door. The doorbell has been rendered useless.
Instructions for rendering a doorbell down into three gallons of fat:
- Step A: ring rigorously
- Continue this step many times until the desired quantity of high-quality doorbell fat is produced.
I have been left alone in a room with a ladder. I stare across at the ladder for a time. I wonder about the ladder. I notice the ladder is sickly white. I place a hand upon the ladder’s edge. I place a foot upon the ladder’s rung. I am trapped in an otherwise empty room. The ladder is trapped in a ladder body – destined to ascend and descend for eternity. The ladder lists. We go on, climbing and declimbing, supporting and desporting.
When I awake, I find a shopping list. “Please buy the ingredients to build bread, whatever they are.”
Picture the following chair:
Deep rich brown mahogany wood is used to construct the chair’s traditional four-legged frame. The seating area is 40cm by 60cm. The wood extends into a high backrest, bending slightly outwards. Three additional vertical sections of wood fill the backrest in between the frame of the chair’s backrest. There are slight openings between the vertical planks. A bright red, perhaps cherry red, cushion adorns the seat of the chair. Made from a plasticky texture, the chair surprises you in the level of comfort it delivers whilst remaining unassuming.
Age this chair 50 years.
This is the chair I must sit on for a week and write,
write.
…write
write…