The Complaint

Part One

The fucking lawnmower, with blades as dull as the handle of a butterknife, stalls unless advanced at such an infintesimal velocity that time itself seems to reverse, sucking one's throbbing eardrums into an abyss of a sound that was never meant to happen, the lawn, much less the lawnmower is an unnatural thing, a sick vestige of richman envy, just like Versaille, every single Joe Whiteguy has got this wasteful status symbol, and even when one shakes it off or let's go of that branding iron of a "safety bar" that causes the engine to stop, one notices that the cut on the finger, which was a result of starting the infernal machine the previous day, now appears to be infected and hurts like hell, it doesn't help that the saftey bar digs right into the cut, even after shaking that off and straightening one's back to look at what one hasn't been looking at while pushing through the tall grass or removing fetid chunks of pulverised grass and upstart blackberry vines, which drive infectious juices into the finger cut, straightening up and stretching the back, one thinks, "I always forget to 'lift from the knees'...stupid saying, my knees hurt too, fuck," and despite the lengthening shadows that one loves to watch, and the brilliant water reflecting the well proportioned cloud cover (the blue sky spots like mange on the sheepdog of the universe), one only thinks, "I should be enjoying this," but hears that fucking your-an-adult-now voice and the grass ain't gonna stop growing, despite the property itself, that one is only mowing because it is a requirement of the lease, despite the cheap rent, even after the attractive neighbor came by, or perhaps in spite of, because she shortly was joined by her friend and they walked down the hill and into the adjacent lot that acts as a kind of public space, because it is a shorcut from the neighborhood up the hill, now they are sitting in the short grass, which probably doesn't grow because it is sitting on barely living soil clinging to a pile of fill, that our town's founders piled on the rich salmon breeding waters that used to be here, and now one feels like one is putting on a lawnmowing show, except it is a clown show, because this lawnmower is just not cutting it, and one is too annoyed to notice the pun, or perhaps too self-conscious or indulgent with vain fantasies of being admired, in fact, one notices, quite ridiculous fantasies, because the characteristics for which one would like to be admired are completely absent, but instead, one is being lusted after because of one skill, that of lawnmowing, and this divergence of thought reminds one of the days multitude of attractions, and how one was so lustful for them, in spring clothes, on bikes, and meeting each other in the campus square, just like these neighbors, except they met in one's yard, and are now possibly annoyed by the lawnmower, which has been started and stalled several times since they have been trying to enjoy the otherwise pastoral scene, "and besides," one thinks, "you are old," way too old for them, and one's back begins to hurt, even after letting that foray into self-depreciation fade into a more even-headed perspective, one thinks again about age, and although the bartender said the year's have treated you well, one is left with the harsh edge of doubt that one is not behaving as an adult should, that even though one has decided to do many adult things, is usually on time, makes enough money to pay one's bills, sooner or later, which reminds one of a $900 dollar dental bill and student loans coming due at the end of the year, even with the garden that one has been maintaining and the full time plus the part time job (the reason why the grass is so long, although it also had to do with the trip to Phoenix, where the family reunion drained one of emotional energy, in a good way, but left one susceptible to the harsh apocalyptic and sometimes incessant thoughts about man as a parasite on the earth, teeming across the desert in pods of strip malls and adobe colored homes in an infinite progression of cul-de-sacs, unrecognizable from each other, which one's uncle described as the background of a Hanna Barbara cartoon, unconsciously likening all the people living there to Shaggy and Scooby and the gang, chased by monsters, who are just crooks in masks, who, in this metaphor, are each and every one of us who has two nickels to rub together, fleeing past a background that repeats and repeats, and of course there were the terrible conversations with the parents about one's drinking, and the earlier one with the cousins and siblings, that took place after they had all been drinking, and the whole sanctity of getting drunk with loved ones is tainted, because perhaps one shouldn't be drinking at all, in fact, it occurs to one, the promise one's mother elicited to stop for two weeks is going well, it is over one week already) still doesn't relieve the guilty feeling that one is not living up to the standards that one has set for oneself, although, one realizes, the standards aren't necessarily written down anywhere, are in continual flux and revision, even if perhaps one has engaged in a vigorous course of self-improvement on some fronts, one has let other fronts crumble and recede, this whole drinking thing a perfect example, the increased productivity has created a hectic edge to life, and awareness sometimes hurts, like too much sun, even when all these things recede into one's consciousness, replaced by the music from one's ipod, and the breeze coming off East Bay, the lawn is still only one tenth mowed...