BIT-STRING ENTRY #12
Humans love to consume, discard or rebrand. It’s a dubious ritual. An unconscious way of maintaining an ever-diminishing attention span. Case in point: PIZZA. Did you know it was once regarded as a pie? “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.” I know, hokey song, way before your time, nevermind. Anyway, after Jeremiah’s bout of self-induced drowning and vomiting, I figured he could use a deep-dish fix. So, I rode the Ural over to Hollywood Pies and picked up a “Fairbanks Special.” They do it Chicago style, with whole milk mozzarella, Italian sausage, onions, baby Bella mushrooms… The damn thing must way around fifteen pounds by the time they slide it into the box.
“Betcha can’t eat the whole thing,” I say upon returning to the small Library tower studio that is now my Chosen One’s domicile. His eyes bug at the depth and weight of the pie, eyes watering from the aroma.
“Thick enough for ya?”
“Ah, yeah.”
“Want some Lipitor on the side?”
“No, I’m good,” he says, taking a quick step over to the small dining table/desk, wasting no time chowing down.
The sight of him shoveling his way through the meal resonates. I can see why Humanity’s Extraterrestrial forefathers earmarked GLUTTONY as one of the seven cardinal sins (SIN being defined as unconscious separation from The Unified Field, or “The Divine”). With gluttony, the primal pang of hunger quickly gives way to what amounts to a compulsive disorder, which is merely one of The Program’s subversive widgets to keep you in a state of wanting “more-more-more.” Custodian 19 liked to joke that “Gout – a dis-ease that creates harmful crystals in the bloodstream, is a Human’s way of wearing fake diamonds inside the body.” I’d argue that it goes deeper than that. All this over-eating, over-drinking, over-exercising, over-anything is a Human’s way of trying to kill the beast within -- that shadow-self who keeps whispering that demonic mantra: “You’re not enough.” Why else would you deliberately gorge your way into a food coma?
Okay, enough. Let’s end this philosophical tangent by agreeing that “in gross proportions,” comfort food can become a buried IED - an Insidiously Engineered Demolition of the Human spirit.
Turning back to Jeremiah, I decide that after basic nourishment, self-care should be next up on the menu. His eyes take on a wary glint as I extract from my shopping bag a custom razor set that includes a horsehair shaving brush, a tin of shaving cream, and a small marble lather bowl.
“What’s that?”
“What’s it look like?”
“I don’t need to shave?”
“Maybe not. But you need some rituals.”
“Rituals?”
“It takes practice to create a habit, form a mindset. Therefore, it takes practice to break a habit, dissolve a mindset. That’s where rituals come in. Healthy rituals, starting right after your morning piss. Trust me, they’ll rework your wiring, your neurochemistry… give you some cognitive-spatial fluidity.
I get that “WTF” look.
“A sense of inner balance before you go about navigating the rest of your day.”
“What’re you, my Custodian or my Therapist?”
“I’m your Supervisor.”
I suggest that he start off the day with the following regimen: 1) make his bed; 2) a 10-minute silent, seated meditation; 3) a slow stretch followed by a set of push-ups, leg lifts, squats and crunches to get the heart and bowels moving. Then it’s as easy as shit, shower and shave.
“We’re turning the page here,” I tell him, draping a towel around his neck and chest. “So, why not put our best face forward.”
He gives a tacit nod. Seconds later, man-bun undone, he surrenders to my scissors and razors. Long locks of straggly red-flecked brown hair hit the floor. I leave him with a Jesus-length cut and a Fu-Manchu. Keeping the uni-brow is not an option.
“How’re we feeling?” I ask.
“Better,” he says. Then, with a furtive glance, he adds a “Thanks.”
“Save some of that pie for later. Come on, let’s head on over to the Athletic Center and get you a new wardrobe.”
With that, we lock up his tower fort and head across campus to another one of my custodial warehouses – this one sporting every kind of clothing, from Levis to Chinese pajamas.
“You’ve got six fingers,” he says, eyes fixed on my gloved hands.
“We’re all mutants,” I reply. “Get over it.”