provenance: unknown

« Ken Pollack makes the rounds  |  Forced reprieve »


I am lying in bed and it is Saturday and I am not asleep. I am listening to Scott Simon on NPR on the clockradio, but I am not listening, I am dozing, but I am not dozing, I am listening. I am still tired, but not tired enough, and I neither wake nor go back to sleep.

So I am lying in bed and it is Saturday and I am listening to some perfectly quaint sounding, slow-talking academic type talking about his book about how you are what you wear and it is perfect for dozing and I am content and they even make fun of the Ku Klux Klan.

And then we are interrupted and it is NASA on the line and they have lost the phone number for their spacecraft has anyone seen it? And someone has seen it but it was in Texas and Texas is terribly big and the spacecraft was terribly high. But it was supposed to come back down 20 minutes ago, where is it?

And I am thinking that there will be something more than words on the TV, and I am getting up and walking past the bathroom and switching the TV to one of the two channels that are mysteriously pumped in from the otherwise dead black cable coming out of the wall and there is MSNBC and there are two pictures. There is a very empty control room somewhere in Florida with empty chairs and empty stations and a few people walking through and I do not look at that until later and do not realize yet how miserable they must be. And in the other picture there is a sky and there is a bright yellow spot on it with a trail, and the spot seems to have a little spot, and then it has a couple more spots, and then I think it seems to get bigger, and now I realize I don't really remember how it happened at all, but there was one nice spot and there were multiple not so nice spots and there was a big ugly spot and then it started all over again and I turned the TV off.

And I am realizing I have to go to the bathroom eventually, and then I am in the kitchen. I am washing dishes and a radio is on again and grown men are sounding very much like they want to cry. And my friend Scott is being very careful not to say seven men have died. And I could care less about the dishes and I'm hungry and the antenna has fallen from above the cabinets and I'm listening to static and the skin between my fingers on my dry, dry hands is hurting from all the hot water and there are no more dishes I want to wash anyway but I am looking for another one and I am still standing in front of the sink and I don't have any desire to leave. It seems just as perfectly useless a place to be as anywhere else.

February 1, 2003 11:04 AM

Comments (and TrackBacks)

Post a comment


Email address: (optional)

URL: (optional)


Remember info?

Copyright ©2001-2003 Matt Pfeffer


. Home
. Web Editing
. Stray Voices
. Writings
. About
. Archive