Finding nuggets in my shower stall
My bathroom shower is a meditative chamber (much like Darth Vader had in “The Empire Strikes Back”), much like the great sweat lodges of the Native Americans. The shower stall is a sacred space, a place of transcendence and alms in which I not only cleanse myself of my accursed daily existence but also where true inspirations spring forth. This is almost always the case with me, and the shower seems to be the catalyst for my mind to simply unwind so I can actually listen to my inner musings.
Life is bombarded with noise that is neither pleasant nor clear. Just imagine someone serves you dinner and hands you a plate with a razor blade, a baby kitten (I should take the time to tell my dear reader that this kitten in this scenario is alive and well) and a car battery, and says “eat up.” Most people, including myself, look at their dinner plate of life and say, “Thanks, but no thanks.”
That’s where the shower of power (clever, right?) comes in, the daily ritual that every person looks forward to and feels rejuvenation through that soap and washcloth therapy. It’s better therapy than Sigmund Freud himself reminding you that you want to have sex with your mother.
I daydream in the shower. Lately, I really wished my fantasies were a bit more sexual in nature. Instead, I have been explaining theories of democracy — out loud. I am a talker, a chatty Cathy, a chatter box, or as the great Paul Mooney once said, “He talks more shit than Jessie Jackson, and Jessie gets messy.” I talk to myself in the shower and I can promise you that I am not losing my mind. It’s just a way of achieving a sort of catharsis when my brain is filled with thoughts — constant thoughts. Sometimes writing down my thoughts isn’t enough. I have to purge my mind by talking. My voice is my gift (Debra, my editor, says so).
While the fragrance of Irish Spring is present in the arid air of the shower stall, my mind unleashes a salvo of random thoughts and once and a while I say them aloud. I am trying to wash my armpits while I think about Founding Fathers and then I utter, “What a bunch of jerkoffs.” It makes me chuckle. Random thoughts happen while cleaning body parts and sometimes I get a pretty beefy nugget of an idea (well sometimes a chicken nugget). Often times a line I will write appears in my brain. I can see an outline of a column or an essay flash in my mind. Then, I have to dry quickly before I lose the damn idea. Even a sentence fragment comes off my tongue, like, “The Founding Fathers were jerk-offs,” and it becomes my responsibility to remember the utterance… meanwhile, I think to myself, “Goddamn it, I need to wash my hair. FUCK!” I persevere through so much, just like Anne Frank.
My hair and my eyes are the only physical features worth a damn on me, so it is important to make them presentable to the public.
I almost wrote pubic there.
Inspiration in my meditation chamber/shower, is a real bitch. I believe it was Virginia Woolf who explained inspiration as a train in her imagination. When the train comes, you better be ready to jump and ride that bad boy hobo-style… hitchhike along with Boxcar Willy and ride it all the way to the California, where the Gold Rush is on. You ride the train of inspiration to get your golden nuggets like the 49ers did (except in the last Super Bowl.) I find my golden nuggets in the shower along with Sophia Vegara holding another set of nuggets (a McDonald’s 20 piece). At least in my mind I do.