It was Demetra’s day off. There was no alarm clock. She lay in bed wondering why she was awake. It’s my day off. Can’t I just sleep? She could have made the choice to get out of bed immediately. After all she was awake and staring at the pop corn texture of her drywall ceiling. Demetra hated drywall. She hated her apartment. She hated all modern apartments. There was no grace in their design. They were just a collection of eight feet tall boxes connected to eight feet tall boxes. She was awake but she refused to rise. The sheets were soft and the comforter was warm. She pulled the covers around her tight like a cocoon and wondered what it would be like to be a butterfly. She was due for transformation, and felt that she had been in the larvae too long. To be a caterpillar would be good enough. She just wanted some forward movement.
So she lay there staring at the ceiling until she felt that she could lie there no longer. Then, she shoved the satin sheets back, walked to the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower. She lit a candle, turned off the lights, and pushed the play button on her CD player before slipping into the heat and the steam. Nina Simone began to sing Feelin’ Good and Demetra took the heat of the water into her body. It drenched her brown hair, ran down her face tracing the contours of her thin nose and full lips. The water cascaded over round, pert breasts, continued across her navel, through her pubic hair and down the insides of her thighs making clear curving streams until it ran between her toes down the drain. There in the shower was Demetra’s favorite place. Eventually she would sit down, head bowed and the steam and the darkness would swallow her. This was her place of solace; it was her temple of meditation. She felt that she was returning to the womb, to the nothingness. It was the only time that she allowed her mind to go blank. Then, she would open and pictures would come in and answers would be delivered.
Demetra felt the majority of the time that her brain was her enemy. She catalogued, categorized, and over-analyzed everything. She understood the meaning of Mary Carr’s words: “Your mind is a bad neighborhood, don’t go there alone.” She hated this quality in herself. She only wanted to let go, and just be. However, there was always the static of her thoughts creating a low buzz that interfered with everything. If only she could always feel as she felt when she was alone in her shower.
Demetra had no idea how long she had been under the scorching water. Time slipped away in her shrine, but eventually she came out of her reverie and covered her body with a soft robe. She was bored, and had no plans other than going to the market. So she flipped on the T.V. Suddenly she was bombarded with commercials from Zales, Hallmark and FDT. The Valentine propaganda was in full swing, and it was only January the fourth. “Fucking Valentine’s Day,” she yelled. She switched off the television, threw the remote control on the floor and began to pace around her apartment. She hated this time of year. She hated the heart-shaped boxes of cheap candy, the cheesy pink cards, and she hated the brainwashing commercials. Valentine’s Day was a day of desperation where people were in a frenzy to be with someone, impress someone, or keep someone. People booked hotels, made reservations, or drank themselves into oblivion at some hole in the wall bar hoping to be touched and validated. Demetra felt sick. It wasn’t that the holiday itself made her sick. She felt sick because she wasn’t strong enough to rise above it. She fell into all the nonsensical candy coated crap, and let herself be jerked around by a date on a calendar. She felt like a victim of the holiday. She would say that it didn’t matter, but secretly she wanted that day to be beautiful. She wanted it to live up to its potential for romance. What she really wanted was to have one time when reality surpassed the coloring and promises of greeting card commercials. Demetra wanted explosions and electricity. She wanted to be swallowed in warm energy. She wanted to really be heard. She wanted her toes to curl and tingle. She wanted strong masculine hands to dance on her skin with lightness and desire. Demetra wanted her brain to fade out like it did in the shower. She wanted to completely give into the sensations of her body. She wanted to explode simultaneously with a man and for a brief moment become the big bang. She wanted to feel universes and planets spring from her orgasms.
This is what she wanted. For a little while she smiled thinking about what this would be like, and then her hideous brain of voices began its daily intrusions: Fat chance. You’re dreaming. That only happens in the movies. You want too much. That’s why you are alone. Just accept reality. Find someone that works out, has a retirement plan, and settle down. Squeeze out a few babies and join the PTA. Every one else does it. Why isn’t good enough for you? She hated these voices. She didn’t know where they came from or how they became so powerful. More importantly she didn’t know how to get rid of them. She couldn’t stay in the shower forever. “Fucking Valentine’s Day,” she roared.
For half an hour the apartment was filled with the thuds of fists on the punching bag. Demetra hit the bag with speed and fury until she could no longer hold her arms up. At the point she cried and began kicking the bag. Her flesh burned from outside in and her muscles burned in reverse proportion. Her lungs heaved, her heart beat a loud deep drum in her ears, and finally she collapsed. Her mind was quite. She sat there until she could breathe normally again, and then slowly she stood until her eyes were in direct line with pink heart with an arrow through it. This is when she delivered her ultimatum.
Listen up Valentine’s Day, I’m pissed. I’m tired of your lies and bullying. It’s time that you lived up to your promises, and it’s going to happen this year, on the very next Valentine’s Day. You can take your roses and shove them up your aorta. I want tropical flowers: calla lilies and orchids. I want gourmet graham crackers covered in dark chocolate, and I want them hand wrapped. I don’t want your stupid red box with little cup cake wrappers. I’m unique. Do you hear me? You can’t love me with a formula. You better hear me or I’ll lodge a diamond in your valve. Try as you might it will never come out, because Diamonds are Forever!
No comments:
Post a Comment