There are a lot of reasons not to record something in writing. As much as the law tries to report on even minor infractions, it is quite possible most non fiction goes unwritten. Many people live secluded lives, and don't write, or are never written about. When being a self bio journalist there often comes a time when it must be decided what is not to be written. This format leaves the piece wide open to readership, and I try not to be to bridled by it. I have family viewers who sometimes politely dodge around in referring to the content with me. The risqué passages are not the only I write in white, when I do. This is where it all comes out. And do I have the courage to write about something very embarrassing? By embarrassing I mean to encompass what I wouldn't share with my circle of weblog subscribers, nor even a stranger floating by this page. Even if the entry is anonymous, from its public entity dangle tendrils back to my conscience. There are recent events in my life I may not write about until my memoirs. Some stories of the recent past cannot be told entirely, because they would require narration reserved for my memoirs. I apologize for the cliffhangers. Understand, right now I walk down to the other end of my hallway in cautious unease. Perhaps the reader would like to know what I find when I sit down to use the bathroom. It's somewhat interesting, or has become so, more than its bare wonder. The pot of stories is actually dribbling over.
I am prescribed to and am supervised on taking psychiatric medication. The office where I gargle the tablets is across town. Since my car broke down (See memoirs), I have been faced four days per week with walking a few miles round trip. I am drunk by the time I reach my doorstep, and lucky to squeeze in another few hours of anything between naps. My dishes, clothes, floors, bed, all -well, were- disgusting. I'd taken to falling asleep on whichever landing suited itself. Then I was fresh for the next day with that fell- asleep- in- these- clothes feeling. Now I will describe the plunge my pride took when I was informed by my sister, by telephone on a Tuesday, that I were to be evicted... or sign up for once- a- week housekeeping at a charge of $100 per month. The groundskeeper, who is technically a resident, had been over to experiment with remote control codes concerning the air conditioning system in the building. Best I can reckon, the morphed scent of tobacco smoke on the shag rugs didn't set well with her sixty- or- so year old olfactory system. Residents had complained of the smell. With the exception of the nether regions of my hall, most of my neighbors have been over recently. Some, habitually, and while I slept. If any of these neighbors have complained and are peering into my life right now, "Fucking stay out!" I'm joking, like any neighbor I'm sure we could work something out.
The Merry Maid, or merry custodian, will be coming by this Monday to check the place out. My plan is to baffle them with an apartment as clean as to an abstract degree. I've got a disorderly conduct ticket on me, and if by similar means or by apathy I let the grime go, I weigh cleaning preferable to getting an eviction on my record. Feels a spiteful demonstration enough... if not an entirely conceding grovel. My room is gradually becoming less squalid, the laundry done and twenty-cent cola cans de-barnacled. In my wary scoot past the far door, I found I wished I lived in Michigan where these cans were worth recycling and I might need all these sweatshirts. If I lived in Michigan things could be better, I thought.
This is the lighter of my recent inner dwellings. I try so desperately to keep it hidden beneath my short stack of current event knowledge when conversing with people. Anyone would care to listen, for sure, to anything I've been keeping down. My stories are not the usual cry of heartbreak, injustice, debt, or even are they long winded dissertations. Given they are not endearing, but nor are they pleas to be heard. Of course not. You think I'm going to tell you this stuff..? There is one other thing I seem to have forgotten. It's not much to tell, and I share some of the embarrassment taken from it. I was hit by a car about two weeks ago. Actually I was hit twice. Apparently the screaming of the girl's friend in the passenger seat didn't immediately register as queue to apply and secure the brake. She was obviously embarrassed, apologizing in near tears. Probably a lot to cope with, for her, as the week goes on. I was a bit embarrassed to be looking like I thought I could stop a car to the approaching pedestrian. Maybe this is why I've told very few people about it. Or, maybe I'm learning the art of not talking about myself to people, the way of suckling them into knowing only what I can bear not to censor.