I first aligned denial from front to back on a Wednesday afternoon. I was admiring the profile my Cephalic vein was casting through centimeters of arm-hair when a gale blew open the shutters. They smacked against the wallpaper, invoking a rhythm that reminded me of a high school drummer learning jazz. In that moment my cellphone lit with the alert of a phone call, the light synchronized with the shutters slamming and I closed my eyes and admired the moment for what it was, nothing special. But I knew when I described it to a stranger they would implicate agency to the nothing special, a simple narrative that connected the dots of random rampage that threw the shutters in sync with a phone call. I lifted off my chair and approached the shutters. The wind stroked my face, scraps of foliage pummeled my eyebrows, I licked my lips and felt the coolness of the air sit on the moisture enticing it like a proper slut. I closed the shutters and pushed back against the gale, the shutters fluctuated as if they were active lungs, pushing toward the window then away from it following the wind’s command. I stepped back and admired the perseverance of chaos, contemplated why we find it necessary to deem the nothing special as exceptional. Was it because of some psychological impulse to believe that each random occurrence indulges purpose because it happens to us and us alone? If so could I possibly invoke this impulse to indulge further, perhaps recognizing a plume of dandruff flicking off my hair as secrets of the flesh, white dots that contain within their minuscule framework a code of DNA that solves how I’ll die and when?
‘Foolishness,’ I thought, ‘balderdash.’
But then the shutters submitted to the gale and this time they struck the wallpaper and left a dent. The indentation morphed a geologic shape printed on the wallpaper from a latticed oblong oval to a collapsed oblong circle. The shutter continued pummeling the dent until it changed from a circle to mounds of rolling gouges, distorting the designer shapes. I didn’t recognize the pattern anymore, it was new and done without my approval, yet I approved. But it wasn’t the rolling gouges that abducted my approval, but rather how they got there. Whenever I deny whatever the moment wants to be, be it a synchronization of violence and alarm, or the roving madness of rogue flecks of dandruff burying their secrets on naked shoulders, I think of the dents, I think of how they got there and how they seemed to belong and do belong now to that moment of nothing special.