Chaitan Butte
Feb 4 2pm
Doors are so stupid. I just closed the door to my girlfriend’s room, but I can still hear “That’s So True” pouring insipid and unrelenting out on from laptop speakers, her roommate’s, another dear friend currently catharted by Gracie Abrams. I came in here to stop hearing them, to write, so I closed the door, but the little thin piece of wood, disjointed and never to become whole with the rest of the world again, fails to accomplish its task. I can still hear their every word, their mutterings of thank you and hollerings of wait, what?? And I’m worried they can hear mine, feel my typings, listen to my laments, and wow… the wind. I can hear it fully. That’s not through the door, that’s through the window. My goodness, am I unsafe from everything? Through the roof, I can hear the rain pizzle pazzle. So my attention must turn there, a belief after belief billowing through me like bile: the rain sounds are loud, you should appreciate it, the rain sounds loud, you should be annoyed by it, the roof is so thin, you should be worried, the roof is so thin, you should be annoyed. Now we all say: hello through line!! Hello through line!
I’m annoyed, and it’s not with this roof and window for their barely filtered access to the chaotic sounds of the mother… or this door, for opening my attention into the world of the rest of the apartment. I’m mad at the door of the room I grew up in, also thin, unprotecting, and impotent. I’m mad at the sounds of my mother, on the other side, controlled chaos funnelled from her childhood into mine. I’m mad at the door, for having closed, only for the simple action to be begged into reversal. Why? Why? Can’t you tell that the door is closed for a reason? Does this door, hack jobbing as a wall to the outside whirl, not mean anything to you? What about the lock, pushed into depression, keeping the handle, the door’s gateway drug, from ever budging. What about that responsibility, the choice to unclick and twist from the inside, a choice between resolution and exile. The door placed such a burden on me.
I would usually be reading calvin and hobbes, trying to pretend like I could flip the pages, scan the panels, until the pain faded. I spent many minutes in this exile, in my room hoping time would stand still, hoping that the monstrous slam and the ominous click would deter predators and parents alike. Maybe part of me grieved the imposition that such noises created, the violence towards kin. The door gave me that, the means to slam, to exile myself into the world of Watterson. Thank you, I might find myself saying to the nearest door. I’m sorry, I might hear myself telling the grief, the inability to not shut out and shut down, the failure to comprehend the infinite permeability of good faith in parenthood.
I’m in a different room, in a different time now. The walls are blue and the desk is in the corner, piled high with books and papers, none of which academic, none of which intellectual. I was wary on intellectualism, wary on the place in front of the desk where a thinker stumped. But stowed against the back of my trundle bed, I’m impatiently waiting to be impeded, trampled into recognition of right and wrong, into perspective. I’m telling myself I know what went down, who went awry, why I’m crying. I’m not crying. But I’m telling myself I know, I know, I know. I hear you, I might have said, were it not for the pressure in my ears, the popping of the lock as I slinked off my bed to the door to do so, the pressure to be heard and the the pressure to hear. Fuckin’ door. Why do you let their pleas through? Why do my tear drops dry up when they enter? Why did the rain stop? Reply from Chaitan Butte
Doors are so stupid. I just closed the door to my girlfriend’s room, but I can still hear “That’s So True” pouring insipid and unrelenting out on from laptop speakers, her roommate’s, another dear friend currently catharted by Gracie Abrams. I came in here to stop hearing them, to write, so I closed the door, but the little thin piece of wood, disjointed and never to become whole with the rest of the world again, fails to accomplish its task. I can still hear their every word, their mutterings of thank you and hollerings of wait, what?? And I’m worried they can hear mine, feel my typings, listen to my laments, and wow… the wind. I can hear it fully. That’s not through the door, that’s through the window. My goodness, am I unsafe from everything? Through the roof, I can hear the rain pizzle pazzle. So my attention must turn there, a belief after belief billowing through me like bile: the rain sounds are loud, you should appreciate it, the rain sounds loud, you should be annoyed by it, the roof is so thin, you should be worried, the roof is so thin, you should be annoyed. Now we all say: hello through line!! Hello through line!
I’m annoyed, and it’s not with this roof and window for their barely filtered access to the chaotic sounds of the mother… or this door, for opening my attention into the world of the rest of the apartment. I’m mad at the door of the room I grew up in, also thin, unprotecting, and impotent. I’m mad at the sounds of my mother, on the other side, controlled chaos funnelled from her childhood into mine. I’m mad at the door, for having closed, only for the simple action to be begged into reversal. Why? Why? Can’t you tell that the door is closed for a reason? Does this door, hack jobbing as a wall to the outside whirl, not mean anything to you? What about the lock, pushed into depression, keeping the handle, the door’s gateway drug, from ever budging. What about that responsibility, the choice to unclick and twist from the inside, a choice between resolution and exile. The door placed such a burden on me.
I would usually be reading calvin and hobbes, trying to pretend like I could flip the pages, scan the panels, until the pain faded. I spent many minutes in this exile, in my room hoping time would stand still, hoping that the monstrous slam and the ominous click would deter predators and parents alike. Maybe part of me grieved the imposition that such noises created, the violence towards kin. The door gave me that, the means to slam, to exile myself into the world of Watterson. Thank you, I might find myself saying to the nearest door. I’m sorry, I might hear myself telling the grief, the inability to not shut out and shut down, the failure to comprehend the infinite permeability of good faith in parenthood.
I’m in a different room, in a different time now. The walls are blue and the desk is in the corner, piled high with books and papers, none of which academic, none of which intellectual. I was wary on intellectualism, wary on the place in front of the desk where a thinker stumped. But stowed against the back of my trundle bed, I’m impatiently waiting to be impeded, trampled into recognition of right and wrong, into perspective. I’m telling myself I know what went down, who went awry, why I’m crying. I’m not crying. But I’m telling myself I know, I know, I know. I hear you, I might have said, were it not for the pressure in my ears, the popping of the lock as I slinked off my bed to the door to do so, the pressure to be heard and the the pressure to hear. Fuckin’ door. Why do you let their pleas through? Why do my tear drops dry up when they enter? Why did the rain stop?
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