Wendell 3 – Thursday March 10, 2011 (Part 1/1)
Change doesn’t happen overnight and I couldn’t bring myself to force it. Cutting off my alcohol all at once seemed ridiculously stupid, since the least I could do was finish the more expensive luxuries in my cupboards. I did, however, recognize the need to pace myself slowly and it wasn’t difficult. I said before I’m not an alcoholic. I think I’m just a drunk. I can help myself where addicts can’t.
And as long as I was cleaning myself up, I thought, I should clean my surroundings. I got to work almost immediately, wiping and washing every surface in every room. Not that it was unusually filthy or anything, but letting the air out made a real difference.
I spent all of today like this, willing my thirst away and contemplating how else to satisfy myself. Cleaning’s worked extremely well; there has been plenty to do and there will still be plenty to do tomorrow.
I’d forgotten how much I liked my house. It’s fairly large, with one story of wide rooms and open views at every angle. In décor it’s very plain. Spinning fans adorn each ceiling, reflections of their slow revolutions visible in the polished wooden floors. My furniture is all white and glass with the occasional wooden bookshelf or countertop. The only thing keeping my home from being boring is artwork of my own design. Warped and disfigured nudes, original sketches of the well-known characters in my books, and other eye-catching illustrations worth extensive amounts of money add a little color to an otherwise unexciting living space.
I’m also pretty immaterial. I have few belongings and certainly nothing with any sentimental value, so my home is virtually empty. The occasional lonely packrat will fill entire mansions with knickknacks, and that amazes me. I’ve seen these phenomena with my own eyes; during a book signing in Vegas I stumbled across an enormous nest belonging to an old freelancer, once a renowned brain surgeon, and it had become the area’s most popular attraction. Having a deep obsession with random and historical oddities, the man who owned this playhouse often opened his doors to visitors just, it seemed, to show off. And I heard that he owns a total of three houses like that. I could never imagine having that much shit, let alone being famous for it. That kind of clutter would suffocate me. No, in my house things are kept far apart and relatively tidy, giving off the impression that the residence, already a decent size, is much larger than it actually is. In fact, I wouldn’t be wrong in saying I completely waste the space.
So why would a person like me buy a property like mine? A few reasons. The isolation offers plenty of freedom, which is a necessity to the lifestyles of celebrities. I have few neighbors, and they live all the way down the street. There was also the house number: 213, the same as the apartment where Jeffrey Dahmer raped and tortured seventeen young men only to dismember, eat, and have sex with the bodies. One of the grisliest stories in United States history. How can I, a horror fan to my deepest core, not appreciate that to its fullest? When I got to it, this house went for a damn good price. The only factor counting against it was its size, which was manageable. But for all its finer qualities, there was one thing about the building that caught my attention, and I knew that if I didn’t take advantage of the opportunity I would regret it for the rest of my life.
I bought the house for the basement. I wanted it from the time I first walked down the stairs and leaned aside to avoid the bare and deliciously cliché dangling light bulb, but it was when I stood in the center of the underground room and spun once around, breathlessly taking in the view, that I said to the realtor “I’ll take it.”
The walls and ceiling were completely encased in mirrors.
I’ll admit to being an incredible egotist back then. My name had just gotten big, my books selling thousands of copies. I might as well have been on the very top of my little world. I had achieved greatness and if I wanted a room full of mirrors, dammit I would get one. Because I could. So I did. The basement has since remained my favorite place. The basement’s floor is made of the same hard wood as the floors in the rest of the house, but every other structural surface is mirror. The only light aside from the bulb on the staircase is a stylistic chandelier dripping with a rainbow of crystals (a model of semi-classic taste) and the floor is littered with multicolored pillows of all sizes. My favorite easel and a drawer of art supplies have been there since I moved in because I used the mirrors to study my own anatomy for obvious art purposes, but otherwise there is no furniture.
It is a simple room, but I need simple pleasures. I limit my entries to this room, however, because I find I appreciate it a hell of a lot more when I only visit once a week or in stressful times. Whoever said that absence makes the heart grow fonder had the right idea about life in general. I’m also sure that, when the time comes, my love for alcohol will return tenfold once I take a sip after a period of sobriety. But I’m far from worried. I’m going to make this work. I’m going to answer my own questions, even if it turns out that’s not what I really want. I don’t know how this little experiment is going to end or how it will affect me as a person, but I’m determined to see it through.
If I hate the answers, I’ll still have the knowledge.
), so the next chapter is already written in a spiral notebook. It just needs to be edited and typed up.
Thanks for the catch.
You give the best compliments and I love you for it!
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