Old Memories Come Rushing Back

Saw this old Sony CD/tape deck, and it brought all those memories rushing back—the San Marcos Sony outlet mall near San Antonio, that burgundy Toyota Tercel I drove, moments’ notice, and so many miles on the highway. And where are those people, and where did everything go? These were proud, confident people leading proud, confident, conforming lives, and I just happened to be a shadow passing through, a flicker of light and shade, umbra and penumbra—nothing important to notice, like a passing cloud.

These, however, would be indistinguishable from people with meristematic tissue anywhere else who are social and superficial, living in identical houses and having give-or-take median personalities that wouldn’t deviate by much—god-fearing, good-morning-wishing folks that give the world a general semblance that everything is okay, when really it’s not. It’s a crowded planet, and most of us leave no mark; it’s only in remembering my story that the times I’ve lived, am living, or am about to live have any significance at all. Otherwise, it’s just the inexorable change of entropy toward the heat death of this universe that a floating Boltzmann brain will come to ponder, accidentally, if that.

If I couldn’t write or sketch, I’d probably go mad. It’s also true, I probably already have. Anyway, I only have this blog to share it with the world—my madness. I know my life isn’t an interesting one, wasn’t, won’t ever be—I know. But I also know that I’ve noticed that’s never really that important. It’s not what is interesting, but what you make interesting. And sometimes you can achieve that by not doing much, or by being dull, reminiscing, or plain idling your life away on your sofa.

As a sofa sapiens, the only fascination I have is sleep. I only solicit food and beverage services that are suitable for sofa-side experiences, like water, tea, ice cream, and bananas. And this banana is the thick variety, not the irritating Singapore common variety that other dull sapiens import in bulk. In between long stretches of sleep, I like short, refreshing naps and nutritious nutty snacks, during which I also scratch my own nuts if they require any attention. Self-grooming is strictly limited to scratching, and any more involvement is only imaginary or in dreams. I don’t like water, particularly cold water, and I would rather drink it than waste it washing my genitals.

I have started looking like an old imbecile, like that Socratic hobo from my childhood who lived on the side of the street, hadn’t any teeth nor gums, who nonetheless made jaw movements to signify to the world that he did wish to articulate, and did so constantly, sometimes blocking someone’s way to work. But for engineering reasons alone, the decibels were inaudible to humans—madness defined in the grotesque and incessant mime. I have the same sagging skin that flows from my forehead and starts to end near my neck like a necklace of fatty, wrinkled skin. That grizzled, stubborn stubble when I shave tells people I am wise by years at least, and they better watch out because this is the danger age.

You never know, today I am on this sofa; tomorrow, I am a ghost, and boy, what a ghost I’ll be. First, I’ll haunt this sofa, then I’ll have to think I’m sure the day of death will help me prepare for a career as a poltergeist. There will be just one day of disquiet since cannibalism isn’t allowed, and the kith and kin, the female members, who are all reptilian in my circle, come from different corners of the city, will against better judgment shed crocodile tears for the cameras, taking selfies with my dead face, protruding tongue, etcetera. Begrudgingly, they’d cremate me and quarrel about who pays for the cost, and I might not even get cremated in the end, which I don’t mind—I can’t mind, after all, by that time, I’m a dead body, with immediate plans to be a ghost.

You see, I’ve never been a ghost before. And I only trust what can be empirically tested; I can’t fall for the religious bullshit that we’ve all read. But I don’t think I’d be a very happy ghost, given that it doesn’t seem like they, as a species, are. They seem obsessed with their former lives more than their current ones, almost to the point of being quite frankly petty about it. I could be that way too, wait in toilets and push turds back when my enemies shit, or make them eat it. Yes, that’ll be fun. Make their houses all teeth and tongue, slippery or hot, with blades and knives everywhere, dancing skulls, and, oh yes, decapitated dicks and balls—really large ones—pissing on their faces. And most of my enemies are of the religious type. I could dress up as their designated god or prophet and shit on their exasperated open mouths. “Take that, you bitch and cunt, and you dick and grunt.” Then, from my ass will plop a turd resembling a decapitated head of someone they really look up to religiously. “There, you can play with him now; it’s all yours,” I’ll say and disappear into thin fucking air. But get this: there will be a leftover devilish grin floating in that space, making cackling sounds.

The best part of being a ghost is the absence of any accountability, like Indian politicians or gods everywhere. Make promises and turn around and take a big dump, and maybe a well-aimed discount poot to add holiness to the ambiance. I could make a career out of it, I think, given that I’ll have an eternity to fritter away. There’s no expectations for a ghost; no one worries that you’d have to be really good at anything. Doesn’t matter if you’re a total ass at it, which very much does sound like something I’d like to be as a ghost. Just an ass, maybe an ass with dick and balls, just to be clear about the gender.