A small event crashes hopes, dreams, esteem, confidence with the power of a typhoon. In the small is the norm of life – when that goes awry, what is there left? Something so intimate as the use of the commode generates a self-hatred that poisons, defiles, shatters the individual. Wraithlike, but not always so. Dissolved to shadow by an unknown assailant from inside. With the loss of flesh comes loss of beauty, opportunity, self-regard and happiness. Life proceeds diminished, but proceeds nonetheless. Behind the day-to-day are dreams of tomorrow. A better tomorrow. Warmth, where now there is cold; comfort, where now there is irritation; normality where now there is oddity. Dreams dissolved with a simple act. To sit and slip into a space designed for “normal” people. The most primitive human act, now beyond the realm of natural. To struggle to meet the barest requirements to be counted human. Why dream anymore?
Operation Bladder Drain is underway with the Bum Squad approaching Ground Zero. The Bums are restless as the mission is critical, but the battle scene will be rude. The terrain will be cold and hard, and this war is waged au naturel. Ready for action, the Bum Squad carefully approaches the intended target and prepares for battle. Oh No! Poor intel from the spotters. The size of the objective was underestimated. There is no possibility for the Squad to mount a successful offensive. They shout to the support team to pull back, but it is too late. Onwards and inwards – the Bums swallowed by the enormity of the operational area. Crashing downwards towards a watery, inglorious defeat. There shall be no medals today.
2 comments:
This is very neat. Not exactly an event, but some poetry happening.
Had you watched me try to extracate myself from the toilet, you would understand why this was an "event."
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