The disconnection from the life force
Lately I’ve started to wonder what would happen if I choked on a fishbone and keeled over in my little studio. Most likely, nobody would find me for a few days. If I didn’t show up to work, they would probably write it off as youthful irresponsibility at first. My sister might try to call, and then would eventually stop by after a few panicked calls from my mom, but I’m betting that it would be at least four to five days before the authorities discovered my lifeless body. Possibly longer, because I’m a pretty independent person, and disappearing out of contact for short spells is not entirely unusual for me.
When I drive around the Bay Area looking at potential long-term housing options, I always think to myself, “This place out in the vineyards sure is nice, but it would be months before anybody noticed I had disappeared.” To that end, I instructed my college friend Rachael, who lives in San Francisco, to call me back approximately two hours after we spoke on the phone the other night. I was having chest pains, and I was rather concerned that I might collapse onto my moss green carpet, drifting in and out of consciousness, until my spirit finally departed the earthly realm. We agreed that if I failed to answer the phone, she would dispatch an ambulance to my apartment.
As soon as I hung up, the chest pains disappeared, but I forgot to call Rachael back to tell her to forget about checking up on me. Luckily, she in turn forgot to check up on me after the agreed-upon two hours. She awoke in a panic at three in the morning, guilt-ridden over her forgetfulness, and sent an email. I finally remembered our agreement the next morning in the shower, and wondered vaguely whether there was an urgent message waiting for me on my cell phone. But because no ambulance had arrived, I concluded that Rachael had understood my instructions to be in jest. We later spoke on the phone and were mutually apologetic.
I’m not sure why I feel compelled to share this anecdote gleaned from the bizarre succession of circumstances that is my particular life, except to demonstrate how neurotic and hypochondriacal I can be. It also is a nice depiction of the Loneliness That Defines Modern Existence, don’t you think? All of us are sitting alone in our respective apartments, wondering whether the postman will finally notice the stench of our putrid corpses two weeks after a cookie went down the wrong pipe.
The fragility of existence aside, I have spent the past few days patronizing various shops in Fairfax to finish off my Christmas shopping. Fairfax only grows more endearing every time I head into town. Over the weekend, I popped into Lydia’s Lovin’ Foods for a drink. In the name of cultural assimilation, I ordered something called a “Green Power”. I can’t remember exactly what was in it, but it included doses of spirulina and wheat grass. It was shockingly green, and tasted like a mixture of apple juice and catnip.
I also visited a small crafts shop across the street that was, to put it bluntly, absolutely rad. It was stuffed with obscure and funky fabrics, weird spangles and buttons, neat project ideas, origami supplies and about a million other fun things. I purchased a few things to make a wreath out of feathers (don’t ask), and the clerk praised me for “putting my energy onto the feathers” even though they were now “disconnected from the life force”. Exactly!
I also love Book Beat, the main bookstore in town, which boasts a robust selection of works dealing with “unexplained phenomena” and new age spirituality, but not a whole lot else. Regardless, they will special-order anything. I went in this morning to retrieve an order I had placed, and noticed that my book was sandwiched on the shelf between works by Ralph Nader and Starhawk. Fairfax is like Oberlin for grownups.
When I drive around the Bay Area looking at potential long-term housing options, I always think to myself, “This place out in the vineyards sure is nice, but it would be months before anybody noticed I had disappeared.” To that end, I instructed my college friend Rachael, who lives in San Francisco, to call me back approximately two hours after we spoke on the phone the other night. I was having chest pains, and I was rather concerned that I might collapse onto my moss green carpet, drifting in and out of consciousness, until my spirit finally departed the earthly realm. We agreed that if I failed to answer the phone, she would dispatch an ambulance to my apartment.
As soon as I hung up, the chest pains disappeared, but I forgot to call Rachael back to tell her to forget about checking up on me. Luckily, she in turn forgot to check up on me after the agreed-upon two hours. She awoke in a panic at three in the morning, guilt-ridden over her forgetfulness, and sent an email. I finally remembered our agreement the next morning in the shower, and wondered vaguely whether there was an urgent message waiting for me on my cell phone. But because no ambulance had arrived, I concluded that Rachael had understood my instructions to be in jest. We later spoke on the phone and were mutually apologetic.
I’m not sure why I feel compelled to share this anecdote gleaned from the bizarre succession of circumstances that is my particular life, except to demonstrate how neurotic and hypochondriacal I can be. It also is a nice depiction of the Loneliness That Defines Modern Existence, don’t you think? All of us are sitting alone in our respective apartments, wondering whether the postman will finally notice the stench of our putrid corpses two weeks after a cookie went down the wrong pipe.
The fragility of existence aside, I have spent the past few days patronizing various shops in Fairfax to finish off my Christmas shopping. Fairfax only grows more endearing every time I head into town. Over the weekend, I popped into Lydia’s Lovin’ Foods for a drink. In the name of cultural assimilation, I ordered something called a “Green Power”. I can’t remember exactly what was in it, but it included doses of spirulina and wheat grass. It was shockingly green, and tasted like a mixture of apple juice and catnip.
I also visited a small crafts shop across the street that was, to put it bluntly, absolutely rad. It was stuffed with obscure and funky fabrics, weird spangles and buttons, neat project ideas, origami supplies and about a million other fun things. I purchased a few things to make a wreath out of feathers (don’t ask), and the clerk praised me for “putting my energy onto the feathers” even though they were now “disconnected from the life force”. Exactly!
I also love Book Beat, the main bookstore in town, which boasts a robust selection of works dealing with “unexplained phenomena” and new age spirituality, but not a whole lot else. Regardless, they will special-order anything. I went in this morning to retrieve an order I had placed, and noticed that my book was sandwiched on the shelf between works by Ralph Nader and Starhawk. Fairfax is like Oberlin for grownups.
posted by cindym at 9:37 PM
2 Comments:
Your fear of a rotting CindyM corpse are groundless. First of all, by the 64th hour the body begins to emenate a most disturbing odor that is unmistakable. Not to sound morbid, but there's nothing on Earth that smells like a rotting corpse. I mean, no one is going to mistake that scent for, say chicken stew. Have you ever heard someone walk into the kitchen and say, "Hmm, are you cooking asparagus or is that a rotting corpse I smell?" Maybe in Bolivia, but not in California. Secondly, once you are dead you will have more to worry about than the corpse you left behind.
Bon Appetit!
So what are you saying? That I shouldn't fear death? What am I going to have to be neurotic about if you take that away from me?
Post a Comment
<< Home