I was given a new bed a small while ago. The thing is a palace. And beneath this forthcoming rant is my old mattress. I wasn’t sure what to do with it, but sensed it would be good to keep. For guests I suppose. Soon I realized it served another purpose. I spray painted this face on it, propped it up in my kitchen. It is to the left of my fridge in front of this strange abandoned pantry. A couple of days ago, I had absolutely no food, I felt like I was starving, but that would have taken a few more days. When I opened this door I found three cans of string beans. They were from before I even moved into my apartment four years ago. This was a success. I was nervous. But it worked out fine. I use the mattress as a punching bag. I punch the party animal out while I play a best of Patsy Cline tape at full volume.
I’m never angry when I do it. I hardly ever act out of emotion. Any violence in me is most likely directed at myself. Although directing violence towards other people is often a veiled way of attacking yourself. But I have no time for that. Anyhow, the sense of your physical being and the feeling of your strength growing is a feeling that cannot be denied when you punch a spray painted mattress to Patsy Cline. And when you run head first at the rest of the world I suppose it’s a good idea to have someone to back you up. Even if that person is an appendage that spreads out from your neck and swivels with your spine.
The mattress is canvas though, and it tends to rip at the knuckles. Which is strange. Not the feeling, but the reactions. Sometimes people see a bruised knuckle and a weird certain respect emanates from them. And in other situations, say the library, talking to a very nice lady while your asking about where to find a Federico Garcia Lorca book of poetry it sends the wrong signal. But in the end everyone’s reactions are wrong, though sensible. The nervousness or fear lies in the fact that if someone is willing to say this or do this, what else are they capable of. But everyone sees the world through their own eyes, and everyone is full of manipulative and selfish secrets and dark passions and dark fears that they spend half their lives trying to hide. So they assume your secrets and lies must be of a darkness the depths outer space could never fathom. But finally I am truly truthful, even if exxxagerating or lying.
This is a major flaw in the understanding of things, though you cant understand anything fully, me or you. If you are a vessel through which you see things, how you relate to things, and you don’t fully understand yourself, then your judgments are lost and misguided. But the most misguided always seem to have an urge to lead. Anyways, I’ve made gloves out of old sweat shirt sleeves. I hate that your the toughest if you pretend to be, or the smartest if you pretend to be, or the most sensitive, or the most together, or the most apart. I hate how people care about other peoples perceptions, and how they perceive other people and themselves. You should know whats right, and strive to first satisfy that initial instinct, then worry about the others after, not the other way around.
Anyways, I am deep into the beers, and I’m rambling. This is the Punching bag. His name is Steve Sr., and he feels no pain.
