#564: SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALRIGHT FOR...
Saturday night's alright for crawling around on your belly on the floor of your apartment and taking pictures of whatever you find down there.
Laces McGinty, The Shoe That Needs No Mate
Once you're down there, elbowing your way along and becoming far too intimate with your floor, anthropomorphize what objects you come across. Look at your old sneaker as though it is an old friend whom you have not seen in some time. Give it a familiar nod. Poke one of its laces playfully to hearken back to younger days. Take its picture and promise to visit next time you're down. Name it Laces McGinty.
While snaking your way to the hall, you pretend that it's 1916 and that you're actually elbowing your way across a muddy field in France, but the brass door knob catches your eye and breaks your concentration. You wonder what happened to all the keys that used to fit the locks in all these old buildings, and you wish you had the key to that lock, because as it is, that lock has not seen any action in years and likely never will again. It is a lonely lock, and you wonder if you should introduce it to Laces McGinty, but the lock's stoicism is offputting, and you decide against it. She stiffens for her portrait, which annoys you, but you'd rather not correct her. Fittingly, you call the lock The Nun.
Before the full weight of exactly how pathetic your Saturday night has become settles into your chest, you make one last stop in the kitchen. You are covered in floor lint and rolling cat hair off the roof of your mouth, but you have a fondness for radiators and want to see how the small one in the kitchen looks from floor level. The one in the kitchen has Mr. Stubbs attached to it. Mr. Stubbs is an engineer, and he takes his job very seriously. Mr. Stubbs is also very worried about you and urges you to get out of the house and have a beer somewhere. Mr. Stubbs shares his favourite personal proverb with you to get you moving: Every man passes out of life as if he had just been born
. You snap his picture. The thankless nature of the soul makes the creature endlessly hungry for refinements in its mode of living
, he says.
Whatevs, you think. Mr. Stubbs is full of shit. Beer? you ask yourself. Beer, you reply with a nod, because as you've found out, Saturday night's NOT alright for crawling around on your belly on the floor of your apartment. No night is. The only stuff that's down there are loners, celibates, and workaholics. You consider getting better stuff and a decent mop as you head out the door.
Mr. Stubbs, sorry to be left alone yet again, composes a haiku about The Nun, whom he has loved from afar, lo, these eighty years:
she's stiff, silent, but
her shape entices, what piece
I would dare serve her
This is day four of the thirty days of NaBloPoMo 2006, and the above entry is my latest submission. To check out what other NaBloPoMo-ers are filling their spaces with, use the NaBloPoMo Randomizer