I Wanted to Change the World
I needed to change everything!
So, I started with the little things first.
I changed the cutlery—all of it. The knives weren’t cutting anymore, and the forks were just old and ugly. I wanted to eat with silver spoons and forks from now on. I threw out the old chairs; they were clunky and I hated them. A friend helped me carry the table to the trash bin. I could have used those for the fireplace, but I didn’t have one.
The paintings came next. Who needs still life? And that old greenish wallpaper in my attic — oh, what a joy it was to tear it to pieces! and the smell of residue on the walls..
I told you already: I wanted to change e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
Then, I changed my permanent girlfriend for a jealous, pathetic one. And then another. I almost married the Belle of the Ball, only to find out she was pregnant with another man while she and I made plans for “till death do us part “.
I changed my hair like a variety of peacocks would. I put on a disguise, a grotesque mask I’d bought in Venice, so I don’t have to look at myself in the mirror. Then I ditched some books that smelled too old and moistened; I had to. They were taking up space and I wanted anew.
Then it was time for lights. I threw away a dozen in one go and replaced all the bulbs with new, orangish ones — warm light, they call them. Yes! It was a revolution. No more white light. Who has white light anywhere except a hospital room? Or that run-down station I used to pass when returning from work?
In the beginning, I had no plan to change specific things or in any particular order. I just craved change. I roamed around the rooms in my old home like a ghost, without a soul, and it would take me hours at a time; quite weird because it was a fairly small place. I literally wore out my soles searching and ditching this and that, and then some.
Old, sealed scented soap bars I had kept in the closet for no memorable reason. I thought the smell would last, perhaps have a scent effect in the room, or something.
I was astounded by what I found when I opened my closets. Penthouse magazines mixed with the Chicago Bulls’ socks and tees from back in the day. I was delighted to throw away, especially those that cling to a certain memory, like my 19th birthday. I found porn zines, my tennis racket intact, and a bunch of school trophies I don’t even remember winning.
Ah, the classics: A diary from junior high. All the dust that was there, silenced for years in memoriam.
I put it close to my nose and inhaled, as a farewell to those little pieces of unimportance.
Is the past important at all?
I unearthed a box of Lego, a Judge Dread poster, and sets of khaki toy soldiers from World War Two (what make were they? Matchbox?). Then a load of cards with superheroes and supercars, their shiny gloss almost untouched, as if a day had not passed since I played them. A friend who visited often—now no more — had generously left me his collection of dwarf footballers and a green broadcloth we used as the field.
Man, was I thrilled ! Real toys for boys.
I moved on to my other room and found more darn books, endless piles on the floor that needed to go. Who on earth reads Leo Tolstoy and Emile Zola these days?
I found an antique accordion with a cherry marble finish in the basement. It brought back memories of my early, carefree trips to the circus. It let out a scary sigh as I pushed its side down and realised it had died.
My guitar was long broken and the strings were shooting for the ceiling like a witch’s hair. I paused. Why did I keep it? I know I needed the strings to use with something sometime but I can’t remember what.
This was too much, you know. I finally collapsed on the floor, wide and heavy, restless as ever. I scraped the old albums; a ton of photos squeezed inside the plastic pockets. Who and when developed those ?
I’d promised myself I would store some for my mom, but finally I couldn’t . Half of the people shown were dead anyway . Others were “dead” to me, all the same: An old flame, a hound from the distant past, a long-gone madman who broke our family once. How the hell did I allow them to live there, in those little corners, rent free and loose?
I opened a bottle of red to fix me a tad and drank thirstily; there was no soul around, nothing but the memories.
Enough labor, I thought, for one day. And it was getting dark soon. Life was passing too soon, I guess. I fell asleep right there on the wooden floor, holding a postcard from a dear friend dated 1993.
On the inside fold, he’d written:
“Be Yourself and Move Ahead.”
And within my dream, I realised I’d done so much and so little to change the world. Maybe I’ll wake up early tomorrow and try again…
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