Katya Grokhovsky, 2011Response to "Sprawl", by Danielle Dutton
Bed
There was an orange in her bed. Yes, an orange fruit. Citrus. Also, Leonard's cookies and a cup of coffee. Take out coffee. Still warm. In a white paper cup, with a black, plastic lid: shiny. I saw a ketchup bottle there too. Half used. Under all the blankets she uses to warm herself up on cold, unexpected nights. Count them: one, two, three, four. The one acting as a cover is the softest, laying on top of the others. Soft, pastel green, satin piping. It is very large and covers the whole bed, lingering beyond it's borders. Sometimes, I act as If I don't know and hide under all those covers. I hide and act normal.
Orange peels everywhere, dried up and dark brown at the curled, stiff edges: vitamin bottles, nearly empty. Olive leaf extract: it helps with her frequent common colds. Take two capsules, upon immediate discovery of first symptoms, also take for general immune care. She likes to read these long, instructional, small print labels on those bottles. It is reassuring. Two lighters from 7 /11. She buys new lighter every two weeks, and then forgets about the ones she bought. She smokes on occasion. Occasion being stress, lack of sleep and general discomfort.
A paper cup, party cup. Dried inside: black ink and two brushes. Three white paper take away containers. The ones in which you get those Thai noodles or rice with your curry. The rice is dried and is stuck to the bottom of the container. Used chopsticks, stained, wooden.
How personal would you like me to be with you? Tomorrow you will know what I mean in general. Five Postcards. Black and white, seem vintage, but it's Cindy Sherman's "Film stills". Also some newspaper clippings: photographs of recent rebels and revolutions and heroism. Failed all. I was born like this. Consumed, assimilated, burned down. Repeating body gestures I have seen in all of her eighty five years here, I beg her to start dancing and get out of that bed. She enjoys it and complies with my demands. Orange and red hardback covers of books beckon me. What about Cosmo magazine, September 1987? Were you there? "How to look good naked": I read aloud and twirl a little, slightly to the left of her center.
I wash my face with icy cold water and raise both my arms. My pleasure is all yours. Pastel lavender to dusty rose pink flannel bed sheets and plenty of scarves. Worn and Feminine. She has hundreds of scarves tied to the poles of the bed. All colors, imagine: silky red, yellow chiffon, green grass and murky burgundy, white, pastel sky blue, sultry orange and violet. Plenty of blacks. All sorts.
It is the best bed I have ever slept on, she exclaims, and jumps onto it. I am having a ball she said, smirking. I walked away fast, stepping lightly. Don't forget the dress, I yell into her ear. Cotton dress, circa 1981. I put it on, metal zipper, sometimes, I even do it up and walk around my apartment, thinking about sleep. It happens so often I am wishing to sleep in this dress. Bill Viola, how about Bill Viola? Silence, sudden outburst: no, Cosmo, circa 1992: " How to have gorgeous skin in under 2 minutes". OK, I answer and keep walking around, raising my glass of red Australian Shiraz towards the ceiling. It is not good wine at all. It is bitter and leaves a strange, tangy aftertaste. I'd like to see it stain this cotton dress. What a lovely, wine color it would make. The dress is pink. Reddish pink. I do not make a stain and go back to bed. It is four in the afternoon. I read Cosmo, 2000: "Stoned to death by her brothers".
Sometimes, there are other fruits in bed. Like that time, I found a rotten apple, once green and juicy. The acid smell of decay didn't bother her either, she likes the perfume of rotting apple flesh. Brown and green still. It tasted bitter. I threw it away and she cried for a long time. Another time, one afternoon, it was sunny and hot, dust in the air, she found a peach there and ate it, it was warm and fleshy, fire red with yellow specks . Very pretty , I said and found an "I love NY" T-shirt between the third and forth blanket. Who's? His? It's small. Its tiny. I put it on my head and stood up. I could see rooftops and red bricks in the window, standing like that on her bed, in my underwear, blue pastel, some torn lace. Old pillows. That time I ate a stake, bloody and raw. I like raw meat. Ancestors call out, as I google blood type diet. Her blood type is O.
How about Andy Warhol? Silence and a passing - by truck shakes my apartment. I live on the 3rd floor, we have rooftop access. In winter, the view is gloomy and snow covers our rooftop, it is very cold, I cannot feel my face, but I go there and stand still. Sometimes, it takes two hours total. Sometimes, I don't do it and I put on my Adidas hoodie and red tights and Australian UGG boots made from Australian sheep and I sit in her bed and listen to iTunes and watch strange things happen. Fruits appear and I imagine gluttony and NYC bagels and Intelligentsia coffee.
I liked the smell of freshly brewed coffee. She shakes her head and finds a cat at our feet. The cat is a kitten, soft, maybe colored pink, sometimes it is lavender, baby blue also, perhaps even beige and creamy, like coffee and milk, it looks like a little tiger. We cuddle it and pet it, until it sleeps. The bed is warm and between fifth and sixth blanket, I find courage and understanding.
Sometimes, I even find a small pine tree in there and winter Christmas lights. Sometimes, it even smells of stale smoke, and I manage to remember and embrace her. Gordon Matta- Clark even? Cosmo, 1999: " How to be a genuinely beautiful, irresistibly fashionable, stay- at- home mum". My nails seem chipped, I paint them dark brown. Better perhaps.
I simply indulge. There is her stance and a helping of generosity and my mild headache. Freshly squeezed Orange juice for breakfast: two glasses. Carefully constructed lies. I beg of her, do not reveal my secrets and illusions of grandeur. Sometimes, I sip my juice and forgive her indiscretions. Old Vodka bottle, nearly empty and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, brand new. Frozen face skin and luscious intellectually stimulating conversation, I am going to live here. Perhaps tomorrow.
