Nine years ago, when the walls I’m staring at right now were taped, mudded, and painted, I was in the midst of chemo; my attention was limited, and my judgment fractured. I chose the texture of least resistance: orange peel. We ended up with a boring, slightly bumpy, ivory creaminess as far as the eye could see. I’ve since blued and purpled some rooms to break the grip of ivory, but undoing texture is a whole different matter.
Humans are a thin-skinned, acne-prone, melanoma-inclined, busted-nose species. We’re born smooth, but life has a way of texturizing and shaming, so we add layers. Leather and tatts. Silks and fine linen. We use fat wallets and fancy cars to distract.
“What about sanding?” asks the Creator of Walnut, the Weaver of Wool. “And there’s always acid, epoxy, varnish, and grinders.”
Even allegorically, this sounds painful. In the looking glass, I see that I’ve grown more textured than the last time I looked and not in ways I’d describe as appealing.
“Don’t be so judgy.” says the Big Eye in the Sky. “I’d go face to face with you any day.”
“Of course, you would,” I say. “And I’d be toast.”
“Toast is soft bread with a roughened exterior,” the Eternal Jokester counters. “Quick exposure to intense heat.”
My friend Scott rails about the energy required to make toast, but I like toast. I resist feeling guilty because I turn off lights like a religious zealot, hang my clothes to dry, and heat water on the wood stove. Shall I thus be held blameless for the fractured ozone? Mudslides? Fires? For a carbon footprint larger than my feet? Shall I be exonerated?
“Of course not,” the Balancing Beam assures me. “Exoneration is out of the question. But when your fault lines widen into fatal apertures, and your body rejoins the teaming earth, your consciousness will be windswept and shiny. Smooth as glass.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say. “That sounds just peachy. But in the meantime, I think I’ll get some Botox and touch up my hair.”
“Oh, yes! And amass more riches and fame,” Pock-Face Crooked Arm grins.
“Easy peasy,” I say. “It’s all about appearances. And lying. The bigger, the smoother, the lie, the better.”
“I’m not sure where I went wrong,” The Truth admits. “But there’s hell to pay. The course corrections are going to be rugged.”
“But it will come out okay in the end, right?” I ask in a weak voice.
“You may have to define what you mean by the end, honey,” the Lover says, stroking my sagging cheek. “That word isn’t in my lexicon.”
Short visits with an honest God 