Wednesday, August 6, 2008


In front of the mirror, or in front of the fridge, was where he usually found himself. Like a drunk waking up after a blackout, he would be staring at his own eyes or at a Tupperware container, and each would hold so many mysteries that he would have to physically make his face relax.

Now he was tired all the time, a deep nerve-weariness that tried always to pull him inwards. Padding across the cold floor, morning after grey morning, feeling the cold rush up his legs like a frightened animal. He was living, being, but not aware.

And when, in those rare hours of lucidity, he would walk outside, conversations, interactions—the sharp shock of that other world—would puncture his awareness so completely, so wholly, that he would take weeks to recover.

He watches out the window, through a cracked continent of broken glass, as the world lets itself pass in the clear air. Up here, he thinks. Up here is where I am now.


LiteraryMinded said...

Nice enhancement of inner vs public selves.

Furious Vaginas said...

I thought this was a story about me, then when I saw Dave's picture I knew it. This is indeed a picture of my refrigerator.

Christopher Currie said...

This is actually my fridge. Dave came over and had quite a long session with it. At first, it was reticent about being drawn, but Dave made it feel very comfortable, explaining his artistic vision, and eventually it opened its door for him.

Dave Smith said...

The fridge and I bonded and I think we now have a friendship that will last for many years.