The Autobiography of a Vacuum Cleaner
Yellow like soft skin, feels like molded plastic, and deep within, lies a circular cylinder that fits the palm of all hands. Will filters, all it shall receive. A heart with a shelf life. Yellow like soft skin, with a price tag he wouldn’t care to remember—one-fourth paid by him, the rest split equally among four strangers occupying a single space—parts to a whole, with the whole never realized.
He took full ownership of it as a result of a higher share, as his ground shifted in the pursuit of a deeply desired peace of mind. A fantasy took form in isolation—25 square meters, far, high up in a mountain. Yellow like soft skin, with a black top cover. Arms with limited reach—unlimited to him, as you have forgotten to read the spec sheet that accompanies me. Arms, not so soft, worn, pulled apart, stretched to reach under a thing or over an awkward corner. Limited, limitless, centered around you.
You grab me as you hold me close. With demanded intimacy—one in the other—you in me, me in a world of my endless doubts. What space do I occupy? In a corner, behind a closed door. Out of sight, out of mind, out of direct reach. A closed door in an isolated 25-square-meter space, accumulation with other clutter. Out of sight, out of mind. A weakness of joy when I’m called upon. A weakness of joy as you fill me in.
I’m filled with what you hope to hide. Parts of you undesired. Fill me in, with a sound so loud I echo—an echo clearly identified with me. I hide all that you wish. I distract them all with an un-soft chime. I distract as you fill me in with parts of you, a changeable belly that feeds on a singular, consistent meal: parts of you. A weakness of joy—joy accompanies desire, as you desire to be rid of your endless needs. Or of your needs of me.
And most of your shortcomings. My shortcomings accompany yours. Yours are needs unfulfilled, desires unmet, resulting in a cluttered sense. My shortcomings are me. The doubts that fill me in, soon to be replaced.
A new end is near, demanded by a technical regime. A new generation takes form. A generation that is the opposite of me. No intimacy will be demanded. They will roam free, endless movement. Move among them, never stop. A limited vessel continues to feed with no desire to be held close by you—the desire that shaped me.
Pet-like, a name to be given with memory and awareness. A circular-like shape. If intimacy shaped me, efficiency gave them form. No time to be wasted. Move, move, move. No space unroamed. All is open, free. A knowledge of space and your place. All is reached through—all but a corner. A corner I occupy will only be met with my reach as you pull my arms apart—unlimited to you, always limited to me—a consistent reminder that you did not read my spec sheet.
As you spin me in, their body will never fit. Your hands will. As I’m called upon, fill me in—I’m your chosen fortress. Filled in as you lift me up. Move as one, over a surface varied in length, varied in touch. Rough to me, rough to you. Smooth and gentle. Filled in by the weakness of joy as I’m called upon. Intimacy demanded, desire fulfilled. All yet soon to end. Drifted away, behind a closed door, stuck in a corner. A corner of your choice, hidden from sight. Drifted away in a background of a cluttered mind.
As the other moves in their endless pursuit, do they too drift away in the background? Or does their soft chime bring a short distraction, escaping the blur of your mind? Is this your desire? We are not alike. My un-soft chime distracts them all. So loud, unsettling sensations. As I scream for you—a sweet, sweet distraction—as I am filled in by a weakness of joy. I distract to hide away undesired parts, filled in truly by parts of you. Even the debris I lifted away—the blur in your sight, soon to fade, soft yet unkind, a slow, steady, unnoticed decay.