Chasing Haruki

050711

  I walk past the mirror and the person that lives there is only a shadow of the me I like to believe in. Today he has hair like a shark’s fin, erect and awkward in its anglature. I ignore him, comfortable in the fact that he scrubs up real nice should he choose to, and pee my morning pee. It rattles into the bowl below as I look out at the garden. A tent is being erected next door. The  neighbours kids must be having a camp-out tonight. With marshmallows, perhaps, and spooky ghost stories. I think back to my own childhood. The wave of memories vomits out of me in a crash of nostalgia but mostly vomit and I realize why the mirror-man looked so bad.

  I clean up what missed and flush and try not to think about it lest I do it all again, a rerun of five minutes ago destined to repeat ad infinitum til I’m empty, should I let it. So I don’t. I know he’s only going to look worse so I ignore my companion when I approach the sink, focus instead on washing my face, my wet hands knuckling into the sockets of my eyes, trying to force out the sick and the sleep all at once. Without ever having done it before I start washing my hair right there, craning awkwardly to get my head beneath the fancy faucet the wife picked out a couple of years ago. Once it’s thoroughly drenched I grab the soap next to my ear and rake it across my scalp, back and forth as I build up a lather, feeling like a bum. The runoff pours down my face, over my eyelids that are clenched shut and across my lips. Satisfied I begin to wash it out, then reach blindly for a towel and free myself from the prison I crafted, drying my eyes first, then the wet mess on my head. I open them to a new-ish me. It’ll do. For now.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Recently I’ve been reading and thus writing some prose in the vein of the great Murakami. This is an experiment, an exercise more than any real attempt at story-telling, but it’s this kind of development that will make my story-stories great in the future. Hopefully. It’s the plan.

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~ by Joseph Blame on May 7, 2011.

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