Spring Cleaning

17 Mar

When I was a kid (note: ‘kid’ is embarrassingly flexible and stretches through the middle school years), there was never a monster in my closet. But there was a person. I was never sure of the greater force he represented, but it was obvious that he was the Employee-of-the-Month type, dependable to be present and punctual for his window, bedside and closet looming duties. His lack of physical presence only confirmed my suspicion of his existence; any savvy Watcher would know that their implied presence is the fulcrum of their power. Remaining a nameless, faceless, mysterious entity was the job description by and large: watch by day, and let the implied presence marinate in wayward daydreams until the nighttime, culminating into the an unbearable tease, bulldozing the brink, brick wall of the imagination’s relative sanity and the concept of itself. Tangents of terror run amuck, the land of the mind and the land of time become indistinguishable and interactive: wincing at imagined wounds, whimpering for help to rescue you from the confines and constructions of your mind, your body. Point being, the Watcher need not do more than exist as a concept, because the imagination brings him to reality.

Now hold your applause, but by the ripe, wise age of 14, I devised a way to bid adieu to the Watcher. I’ve been sleeping in a bed, by a closet, and under a window for years. I know- Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, here I come. The solution turned out to be simple: give the unknown a name. I humanized the hell out of that Watcher, kind of like a game of SIMs. The Watcher’s ill intentions were as vast as America the beautiful herself, accentuated by years of exposure to our god blessed, striped and starred, sensationalizaed media. What’s a kid supposed to think when Mortal Combat and WWF entertainment are laced with advertisements claiming “Impossible is Nothing” and “ Just do it”? However, James McDougal, certified Watcher by profession, was just a lonely, harmless, twice divorced balding man with a fear of mold and impressive stamp collection. James had been in enough custody battles to prove his devotion to his children and to make him go broke, but unfortunately, he only got to see the little ones every other weekend. James had three dogs (literally the man’s best friends), one of which was a Chihuahua he bought in the glory days of the Taco Bell ad’s to pick up Bitches also walking their bitches in the park by his condo. No such luck. James was a good guy at heart, but that heart was calloused and layered, thumping lethargically through his jaded existence of watching and reporting, and occasionally opting out of mass for a Sunday social with his buddies C-Span and Jergens. There is nothing unknown, mysterious or faceless about James. He has a name. Thus, How James Lost his Fear Factor.

Spring Cleaning. Before I clean out my closet, I have to sift through the assorted clutter. Some I recognize, some I don’t. Don’t know how I got it, why I’ve kept it, or how I go about getting rid of it. The difference between this and the Watcher situation is now I have a handful of cards and know how to play them when Fear invites me to the table for a game of poker. I just need to remember to box it all up and write a huge, legible label across the top in order to pack it up and ship it out of my closet. I want, so desperately, a nice, clean closet; the exhausting process is a means worth that ends. Name it, Say it, let someone hear it, package it, ship it. The psycho-therapeutic assembly line. Ford ain’t got nothing on this, shoot.


One Response to “Spring Cleaning”

  1. Dannie Sporleder December 9, 2010 at 2:53 PM #

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