Little Motel

I've cleaned up my act for the time being. I am sober, I pay my bills on time, I remember to wash my hair, I don't smoke anymore, and have replaced most of my vices with a newfound love for Diet Coke. I’ve found that there’s not much sense in trying to get rid of vices altogether; they can just be substituted for something less offensive. It's not much to write home about, but it's a gentle and consistent existence. I say "for the time being" because I know there's still this creepy, mangled thing that lives inside of me. It is hibernating right now, but I know myself and I know that it's only a matter of time before I go back to my "old ways."

It does seem funny sometimes to refer to things as my “old ways;” I have a tendency to tightrope walk between two extremes and struggle with this balancing act. It’s hard for me to know which way I really am. My oldest ways are illustrated in my mind as me digging up worms and carrots and other soft soil occupants with my bare hands, pale, chubby legs decorated with leeches from wading in uninspected water, using a mixing bowl as a drum. This is my good. At some point I suffered a divide.

My new old ways are not so green. They look a lot like me now, but a bit dilapidated, a bit strung out, a bit like a dog with its teeth gnashing at passersby through a chainlink fence. Contained and controlled, but you still feel like in a certain circumstance you could be in danger.

It is difficult for me to tell which I really am. I am bilaterally divided. I have a dark and destructive nature about myself that I try to stifle and mask. I try to hide it under a bushel, but it glints and attracts the eye. It is so tempting to paw at and dig up.

It sounds elementary to try to define myself in light and dark—so I will not attempt to describe myself in that way. But god, do I ever have shadows and tar and asphalt and pitch and soot crammed into every one of my thoughts and actions.

I am on a good path currently. I have my job, my little studio apartment, my routine. I bought a new laundry detergent, I fold the blanket over the back of my couch when I am done reading at night. But every one of these actions takes maintenance, active thought. I must be cognizant and aware in order to do the good. It is objectively easier for me to be slimy and dirty and venomous. I take a highlighter to the positive and try to shove the negatives into a shoe box that I will shove into a closet that will be shoved into the dark once the door is closed. I want to think that I am good, but I am not. It is hard to be good, and it is easy to be bad. If I was sitting down to write an essay about “good and evil” and if I think that people are good with bad habits or bad with good habits I would say that people are bad.

There is some good left in me that has not been rung out; I am aware of this because I still think fondly about the good and want to hold onto it. I know it is only a matter of time until my capacity for good runs dry. The beauty of it is that it replenishes itself and the swells fill up again once I have expelled enough toxicity. I have to expel the toxicity sometimes in order to make room for the good; I have found they are unable to coexist. It is unfortunate, though because things can only get so great before they are not and then they must go back to the bad.

I have this one sharp tooth; I really am fond of it. My tongue caresses this tooth (it’s numeric title is 22. I know this because I saw a chart of all my teeth one time and each one is assigned a number) mindlessly, often actively because I like the threat it poses to my tough but easily scythed oral muscle. This tooth is so sharp that it’s wreaked havoc on my tongue to the point where it always feels like it was just scolded with hot coffee, my taste buds are swollen and engorged. This doesn’t bother me too much; I find it kind of amusing to scrape my tongue on #22, my mouth salivates at the sensation. This tooth is so sharp. I often find myself asking people if they would like to stick their fingers in my mouth and feel my sharp tooth because I think it’s truly remarkable that something could be so organically sharp. I have this fear that one day I will erode the peak with my constant curiosity and the friends or strangers who I invite to indulge me by taking an interest in my fixation will eventually rub it down to a dull mound. I worry about this. I also worry that one day it might just break and instead of the magnificent point I am so accustomed to, I will have a jagged reminder of where that great statue once stood. It is as sharp as the point on the end of a meticulously sharpened Ticonderoga pencil; the one with the good eraser. The problem with these two examples is that if you continue to sharpen, eventually the lead will break; and if you indulge yourself too much oftentimes you will corrupt the thing you were able to extrapolate pleasure from. You can only get so good, you have to know when to stop. You can’t fly too close to the sun.

I am on a good path right now. But, when I was on the trip from Michigan to Canada, when we were on the back roads where nothing lives but 7/11s and tall crops, Oldsmobiles on blocks, mangy porch dogs and their owners, and the occasional one story motel, my heart lurched. Maybe not my heart—but the creepy thing that I suppress and satiated and subdue with my nice coffee and fancy supplements and healthy sleep patterns lurched. At once I lusted after the thought of laying up in a flea motel, with a supply of absinthe and Quaaludes and parliaments. Gas station novelties littered on the floor, Slim Jim wrappers, "do not disturb" always hung on the door that leads to the parking lot. Making an appearance, surfacing to the sunlight only to get more parliaments, or Slim Jim's, or gas station novelties when my rations have run low. A humble soldier fighting my own battle; except it is hardly a fight it is just me laying on a bed made of off white announcing my surrender to this kaleidoscope of a world. My face sullen and gray, new lines forming from staring at my own hands all day long. Not an ounce of motivation, the only "good" left in me would be the "Thank you," I say to the clerk at the 7/11 who could be pretty if she didn't wear so much eye makeup. I like to think that my bad is not as bad as others. I try not to murder, I try not to say bad things about others, I try not to steal. But, in the long and short of it all, it is even worse because I know that I am creepy and slimy and I still don't have it in me to suppress it all the time. I like to believe that because my grime is self destructive and remote that it is acceptable. It is just me in the motel. It is just me and my fleas and TV static. But, when I am dark there may be an absence. When my phone gets shut off for the second time because I spent all of my money on gas station novelties and no one has heard from me and has no reason to believe I am alive. Except for that I was green and full of life just months ago. How can the dichotomy of one individual be so stark? How hard is it to decide? If you knew me, you would know I am indecisive and impulsive, simultaneously. I am catatonic and hyperactive. I want to be a happy medium. I want to be beige.