PAST TENSE/PRESENT TENSE
My brain likes to play at night. In bed, lights off, it races through memories and possible futures and experiments and a hundred ways to rearrange the living room. I make tea and read a book in an attempt to narrow the focus and perhaps lull myself to sleep. This week’s book is Ordinary Affects by Kathleen Stewart, loaned to me by a friend who promised it would be the perfect thing to read before my trip. And it is.
There’s a problem though. Reading Stewart’s observational snippets, my brain decides this is also the perfect game to play instead of sleeping. I am assaulted by memory, which comes in doses just about the size of the ones in the book. I don’t know what to do with all of this information; I can only write it down, emulating the format of what I’ve just read. As an aside, it has started to rain.
A fellow I met 10 years ago told me a story about how he had just gotten out of the shower when he heard tires squealing, and then a thud. Instinct made him run outside. A car had hit a little boy. He sprinted to the boy and knelt down next to him. He said over and over, “You’re going to be okay.” Neighbors poured out of their homes; someone called 911. It was only once the ambulance arrived and carted the boy off that the guy realized he was completely naked and dripping wet. He said to me “I just didn’t care at all. I suppose I was in shock. I went back inside and put on some clothes and then just sat down for a long time.” I haven’t thought about that story in years, but it hasn’t lost its impact, because I find the image of this naked guy crouched down over a bleeding kid so incredibly touching and ridiculous. I also wonder if he was lying.
Then there’s the grocery store in Brooklyn that kept all of its toiletry items behind a counter. Toothpaste and tampons and deodorant and such. I was too embarrassed to ever step up to the counter and ask for anything from the man who sat on a stool behind it, reading magazines. I can’t for the life of me now make sense of my aversion to asking for toothpaste. And I can’t fathom why the store would make customers specifically ask for it anyway. I also remember they only carried malt liquor, no beer.
Then what? I get up to look at my hair in the mirror and wonder if I should get it cut before I leave. I look at my various cameras, weighing them in my hands, trying to figure out which one I should bring. This one is small and quiet, but hard to focus. This one is heavy, but makes every photograph look amazing. This one is 60 years old, complicated to operate, and would force me to take several minutes to compose, meter, and finally take each shot. But it might be worth it.
I’m yawning now but my brain doesn’t stop. My cat comes and sits next to me and watches the computer screen and the little black forms that appear on it when I type. He does this every night, and I’m starting to wonder if he can read. He rests his head on my arm and purrs and purrs. It’s so sweet that I don’t want to move my arm, so I type one-handed.
Tomorrow I’ll go to the cafe. I could make coffee at home, but I have writing and reading to do and my office is useless. It’s the most useless room in my apartment. I’d rather like to turn it into a library. I could sit in a classy wingback chair, reading poems. And I’d finally read all the classic works I should have already read. I’d organize my books according to the Library of Congress system, not Dewey. I’d use an old-fashioned card catalog like the one in my living room. But not that actual one — that I’m saving for an art project I’ll never finish.
Maybe if I did that I’d finally be able to sleep at night. What a ridiculous thought.
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