A Mess

Unlike chambermaids, who can be imagined someday crying, “I too, scrubbing with quiet dignity, all the while dream of leaping into bed with you!” although equally, alas, spherical, in our crude models, and sharing many of the same bacteria as chambermaids, along with a certain porcelain primness, and also tending to keep the bed tidy, rather than sweatily ravished, chamberpots, though little used today—but here we must object, having picked up on a fundamental silliness of this one, which we should have seen coming, viz. that of being contrived around the frivolous and more or less arbitrary prefix chamber, these -maids and -pots springing to mind, we suspect, because the writer’s room is messy, and perhaps he’d rather not interrupt his creative trance to get up and roll to the bathroom, but consider, gentle, spherical reader, if one of your own thoughts has come to you without a certain lamentable prefix, such as, “I suppose,” or “If it please the court,” or really the feeling of these, which is, roughly, it’s me, me again, thinking this, which is consciousness, or, crudely, the cube in which we encase, not to say imprison, such spheres as the writer and the chambermaid, but not the chamberpot, just to keep track of them from year to year to year, as the writer, for instance, is far more like a certain matronly aspiring urban beekeeper in Brno, Czech Republic, than himself of six years ago, before the events we had no special malice in modeling, more in fact like that Czech lady of quiet, although not very dignified, longing than anyone else in the world, yet he must know that someone out there is the person most inwardly him, on whose death he will become—unknown to the quaking, soot-begrimed husband, and the schnapps-besogged mother—the greatest surviving remnant, unless he already is, the good bee fancier having just now died, or unless the writer dies first, or perhaps he hasn’t thought such things, cubic propinquity being less a preoccupation of the living, who don’t often think of their very selves as constituting a sort of igloo or sisterhood in realms inaccessible, unless, as our readership vaults into the high-single and finally double digits, we are after all calling forth our like, illuminating our ghostly edifice from within this mess, one by one, or rather cube by cube, in our models, crude but effective, as often enough something lifelike emerges from frivolous and more or less arbitrary beginnings.