Björk - Medúlla - Desired Constellation
[ asceticism ]
My muscles remember, their memory is precise. Often they confirm that I should have, as a youth, on those days as I lay sick on the living room couch watching the Bob Bell in costume as Bozo the Clown
—- a couch that would on several occasions as a teen feel the motions of me dry humping girls and investigating the insides of their mouths with my tongue, all that while in between my lips would say things to encourage more make out silence. That couch probably got more action than it should have for being something that my family shared. It never got dirty though. It really couldn’t because of the old man’s neurosis. Twenty years later it would make its way into my Chicago apartments, still looking brand new, again because of my father’s clean freak tendencies. Until it was owned by me the couch was covered and protected by an assortment of mute fabrics that would be changed weekly. The fabrics would be tucked neatly into every crevice in an attempt to disguise it’s purpose. He never made it to the plastic coverings that some of my other family members made it too. Perhaps that reminded him too much of the fact that he was an immigrant, or that it showcased a too loudly that, to the few white people he befriended and that actually came over, he was not american yet. Either way. They weren’t hideous, buuuuuuut… they weren’t necessary either. Scratch that. Because of those years of caring for his furniture like he did his children, I was able to have a couch that was just a few years younger than I in my possession and still looked like it was new. And maybe things happened on that couch here in chicago like they did when I was back in my home town — with similar tones of adolescence, but more refined and a bit more tasteful, a starting point of sorts. I don’t have that couch anymore.—-
——- called and attempted to get on the show. I would have put to shame any “Billy,” “Kenny,” or “Becky,” or “Jessica.” How could they fucking miss the goddamn bucket. The objective was easy. Ping pong ball in the goddamn bucket. It was right in front of you with no defenders. I was convinced I could do it. I would practice around the house. I was, and still a somewhat athletic, not olympic but also not incapable of getting up at any moment and running two miles. But my muscles they remember. They remember the distance and the energy needed to get the garbage in my hand, whether it be a single shitty staple, a snotty balled-up chunk of Scott one-ply toilet paper, an egg shell, a bottle cap or whatever, my muscles know. I missed my shot at the Bozo show, never pursued basketball dreams, and cook enough to have impeccable aim in the kitchen. And the couch.. the couch is gone. It promoted too much laziness, a kind of laziness that left when the tv left, that has left since the internet left, and the left with some of the less suitable candidates. Still my muscles they remember and they are still learning.