it doesn't take much to become blinded by monotony. to be lulled by the routine of things. over and over again. like the hammering of nails. you set one more upon the board, and with lassitude, you strike the top. trying to keep it all in place. trying to keep the attachment. trying to hold it to form
I never learned how to build a house. but at times I could muster up the knowledge of putting small rooms together. little places to stay. even for just a short while. until the tearing down began. the moving on. the deconstruction of one space before the reconstruction of another
the smallest room I can remember is a confessional. how I fit so many sins into that stall is still a wonder to me. I was not the worst of boys, but I felt the judgement through the screen of the sliding window as the lumbered breathing of an overweight priest set penance upon me. curious... how it was always the same. ten Hail Mary's and an Our Father. he never changed it up. like it was protocol. a scripted response. as if the severity of sin never mattered at all
I am wise enough now to keep my sins much smaller. I don't have to be told, or scolded. and I've forgotten my prayers. I stare into the nighttime skies and forget about constructing rooms. the claw of the hammer extracts the nails. the boards come down. my house is vast and ever expanding. shapeless. discordant. and decorated with exhilarating variety
(Image from jimburns.org)
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