I wastold to have a seat while the managers finished their discussion in the otherroom, but I looked hard and long at the chair they offered me, a kitchen chairwith a vinyl covered cushion that was tan colored and creased in an ineptmachine tooled method to make the surface appear like leather. The lights inthe room dimmed somewhat and it seemed as if the entire floor of the buildinghad become one large elevator car; I could feel myself sinking to the depthsbelow the stomach to where nausea was a brew always waiting at the table youwalked away from in a hope that you could learn new ways to slake a thirst. Youreturn to where you were continually ill, you return to the place where disastersoccur like the arrival of mail and small teeming insect colonies when theweather gets warmer. Strange how I got tired of a life that made made sensewithout explanation, a life where every decision was followed by appropriateresponse , with the results being an equilibrium not unlike a placid likedreamed of in a passing Idyll, smooth surface, calm waters, perfectly diffusedsunlight . I got tired of that and wanted to lurk around the basement again, towallow among the empty boxes and bottles behind the figurative water heater;life should be a series of pipes that leaked contentedly. So here I was, on thethird floor staring at a kitchen chair's cheap vinyl covering, waiting for themanagers to finish their discussion in the other room.
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Verbal Remedy AKA Denise
John Hughes
Dorinda D.
Paul Levinson
Joan Walsh
Karen Templer
Salon.com
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