—Jack Spicer
On this gorgeous-
ly dim-lit first day
of a decade, I place
myself upon an eld-
er tiny couch that has
under me a tartan mat-
erial (covering what, I
do not know) and these
must be kitchen dish-
drying towels that lay
upon each armrest. Up-
on the left armrest my
left arm rests as I scribble
this, for some perspective
or for resolution, I suppose.
But what is ever actually
resolved, anyway? Is any-
thing finished, any promise
ever completed? The only
load of laundry that I can
afford to wash whirls peace-
fully and hypnotically around
and around in the $4.45 wash-
er. I am watching it (as usual)
more sucked in than teevee until
I either am hypnotized or asleep.
I dream the dream of restless wet
clothes anxiously awaiting the
glorious release of moisture that
welcomes each piece into cleanli-
ness. It is not so good when so
exhausted to dream either rest-
lessly or anxiously, I would say.
“Please wake me up when the load
is done washing,” I deign to demand
of my dream. The dream wakes up to
transfer the laundry from the finished
washer to the dryer (and puts in the
generally sufficient $1.25). To never
leave the ancient couch with its
seats covered with a tartan mater-
ial is my New Year’s resolution.
Next year I will take my clean items
out of the dryer, which is an even
bigger television. But I am already
in a hypnotized or dream-state and
now know what this coming year
is asking of me. It has asked that
my resolution be another year of
complacency (“Complacency!?”
I exclaim to the year, “Like the year
before and the year before that?
Like the past 6 years or perhaps
even the previous entire decade?”
I am screaming this). Then, mir-
aculously (to me) I make my way
off of the couch and stand there
for a moment, a bit wobbly, mumb-
ling to the year that it is just going
to have to see about that. “I’ll
find myself a new anniversary, that’s
what I’ll do!” I tell the year.
I transfer the items of laundry like
bills of currency from the washer
to the dryer, unaware of why I am
so agitated and confused, but care-
ful not to watch the clothes in the
dryer, lest I be drawn into their
dark arts, hypnotized by the vortex
of their colorful swirl. As my laun-
dry dries, I remember the litany (or
prayer?) I have come to say each
night of late (oh, the places at which
I have resided!). And then I find myself
in my cozy apartment. The confusion blows
over except for wondering vaguely why
I keep crossing over the threshold into my
place with two tow-bags full of my clothes
and some of my linens (but, oh, they
smell so clean!); into a place I have
lived for nearly a year, but where I
have yet to awaken with the memory
of even a tiny scene of any dream.
Not even a hint of one. Unlike any place
at which I have resided, I do not spend
the duration of day racking my brain to
remember the teensiest tidbit of what
transpired the night before. Not a clue
in my head; not a hint of emotion. I
never sense a clue. Suddenly, I have
the startling sensation of being a
guest sleeping in a stranger’s room.
I come to my senses at a moderate pace,
and begin my nightly “prayer” — I bow my
head upon my semi-strange bed and speak the
address of each place I have resided since
childhood and think momentarily of the bed (or
beds) I slept upon at each address and with
whom I slept at each (which takes considerable
memory and time). This comforts and even pleases
me as I proudly place each of my newly clean pos-
sessions into its proper drawer in its newest home.
On this gorgeous-
ly dim-lit first day
of a decade, I place
myself upon an eld-
er tiny couch that has
under me a tartan mat-
erial (covering what, I
do not know) and these
must be kitchen dish-
drying towels that lay
upon each armrest. Up-
on the left armrest my
left arm rests as I scribble
this, for some perspective
or for resolution, I suppose.
But what is ever actually
resolved, anyway? Is any-
thing finished, any promise
ever completed? The only
load of laundry that I can
afford to wash whirls peace-
fully and hypnotically around
and around in the $4.45 wash-
er. I am watching it (as usual)
more sucked in than teevee until
I either am hypnotized or asleep.
I dream the dream of restless wet
clothes anxiously awaiting the
glorious release of moisture that
welcomes each piece into cleanli-
ness. It is not so good when so
exhausted to dream either rest-
lessly or anxiously, I would say.
“Please wake me up when the load
is done washing,” I deign to demand
of my dream. The dream wakes up to
transfer the laundry from the finished
washer to the dryer (and puts in the
generally sufficient $1.25). To never
leave the ancient couch with its
seats covered with a tartan mater-
ial is my New Year’s resolution.
Next year I will take my clean items
out of the dryer, which is an even
bigger television. But I am already
in a hypnotized or dream-state and
now know what this coming year
is asking of me. It has asked that
my resolution be another year of
complacency (“Complacency!?”
I exclaim to the year, “Like the year
before and the year before that?
Like the past 6 years or perhaps
even the previous entire decade?”
I am screaming this). Then, mir-
aculously (to me) I make my way
off of the couch and stand there
for a moment, a bit wobbly, mumb-
ling to the year that it is just going
to have to see about that. “I’ll
find myself a new anniversary, that’s
what I’ll do!” I tell the year.
I transfer the items of laundry like
bills of currency from the washer
to the dryer, unaware of why I am
so agitated and confused, but care-
ful not to watch the clothes in the
dryer, lest I be drawn into their
dark arts, hypnotized by the vortex
of their colorful swirl. As my laun-
dry dries, I remember the litany (or
prayer?) I have come to say each
night of late (oh, the places at which
I have resided!). And then I find myself
in my cozy apartment. The confusion blows
over except for wondering vaguely why
I keep crossing over the threshold into my
place with two tow-bags full of my clothes
and some of my linens (but, oh, they
smell so clean!); into a place I have
lived for nearly a year, but where I
have yet to awaken with the memory
of even a tiny scene of any dream.
Not even a hint of one. Unlike any place
at which I have resided, I do not spend
the duration of day racking my brain to
remember the teensiest tidbit of what
transpired the night before. Not a clue
in my head; not a hint of emotion. I
never sense a clue. Suddenly, I have
the startling sensation of being a
guest sleeping in a stranger’s room.
I come to my senses at a moderate pace,
and begin my nightly “prayer” — I bow my
head upon my semi-strange bed and speak the
address of each place I have resided since
childhood and think momentarily of the bed (or
beds) I slept upon at each address and with
whom I slept at each (which takes considerable
memory and time). This comforts and even pleases
me as I proudly place each of my newly clean pos-
sessions into its proper drawer in its newest home.
