breaking shit
sometimes there is no calm, socialized, acceptable reaction.
sometimes the only logical reaction is to break shit. life make us feel.
and, at least in english, this is both emotional and tactile.
i feel with my heart, i feel with my head, i feel with my hands.
por ejemplo:
i can feel betrayed; i can feel your cock.
the abstract, emotional and mental, begs for physical expression.
and so i stand, in the kitchen, a stack of plates in my hands. they feel smooth, cold, heavy. four large, four small. they’re oversized, square, small a medium at minimum.
they feel wonderfully weighty and solid in my hands, the stack.
they feel ready to crash.
the neighbors, he says, don’t deserve to be woken, they didn’t do anything. appealing to my rationality, though i feel anything but. and why should i now? why think of that? why didn’t you consider the myriad unexpected consequences of your actions? why now must i take responsibility for something you catalyzed? for things you wouldn’t and won’t?
but despite my tendency to express beyond the bounds of social acceptability, despite his being the upright, responsible one, i’m the empathetic one, the one more thoughtful, the only one here who seems to think of how other people feel… or something like that, at times…
so i nix the original plan, that brilliant, calculated idea of a moment ago – to break shit, break a bunch of shit, outside, out back, out of the way and easy to clean up, a glorious crash as they hit the concrete. too much noise for those unsuspecting neighbors.
you didn’t think of me, or them, or anyone else,
while you were fucking that betty crocker cunt
but someone has to.
so I do. kinda. i stay inside at least.
so i lift up, just a bit of extra leverage, before
smashing down the whole goddamn stack
on the kitchen floor.
heavy, smooth dishes, they feel.
crash, boom, bang
anger in motion, they feel
the physical manifestation of pain is momentarily gratified, but hungry for more, to pull the rest of that abstract inner, out into the world, ‘outta me…’
those that don’t break, i heave and hurl with heavy satisfaction, aiming for the heart, aiming for the head. and they skid off at angles, to the floor with the rest,
and you wrestle me down, and i crash and kick and flail, and hit the floor too,
hit bottom
the anger and the feel pour out, shatter on the floor with the dishes
but none of it is ever enough to accomplish what i really want:
UNDO
but nothing ever undoes any of it,
and i am lying pinned on the floor in the shards, wracked with tears
and i am still a quivering disaster of too much feel
at least i spectacularly broke some shit.
________________________
Originally written 7 December, 2010
the breaking point, preceding a downward spiral of pushing, to get through, to get away.
Push back ’til it’s fixed or broke or both.
More reflections on that later.
