Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Ritual plays a painful part in this writing game. Painful to me because I abhor routine. At least I abhor being aware of routine. Maybe I don't abhor it; probably I just wanted to say "abhor". Either possibility is acceptable to me at this time.
The bath is vital. Er, the shower is vital. I'm far too big to properly relax in these Western-style bathtubs. And there's hardly any room for my Transformers toys. Oh yes, there are water-based Transformers. They just don't get seen much because they're usually float along staring wistfully at the coast or channel or fjord hoping some Decepticons come by with some evil plan involving sunbathing. (I know this feeling exquisitely well.)
The Japanese tradition would look in horror upon our toilets nestled snugly in the same room as our baths and showers. Might as well put the dining room table and the microwave in there while you're at it. Look at us; we're crazy Americans! Let's just do everything where we poop!
This reasoning makes sense, but I don't ascribe to it. Architecture that allows me to take off my pants and leave them off has my full support.
So to the shower I go. I get clean. Scrub away the lingering doubts. Try to, anyway. Then I'm ready.
It is imperative that I remain in my towel as I sit down at the computer. If I put on my nighty-time clothes there is the real and present danger of me simply walking past the computer and falling onto the bed. Being in a towel fills me with a feeling I can only assume is confidence. Also, the dampness of the towel imparts a sense of urgency; the origin of which I am hesitant to explore further.
Thus clean and clad, I can begin. Or in this case, end. It's my bedtime. Another night of dreaming and another 6 hours before I have to put on pants.
As I read over this I must apologize for the disjointedness. In my defense, I've spent the last 2 hours alternating reading the short stories of Herman Melville and watching episodes of the new season of Futurama.