Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
Soundtrack: Evan P. Donohue – Irene
Alright. We survived Irene. Well, as a matter of fact, surviving isn’t exactly the correct term. It practically blew over. The media (media in general, of course, there’s definitely nothing better than trying to generalise something so abundantly diverse as the mainstream media business) proved their necessity once again by covering the storm excessively, but as far as I am concerned last Sunday was a lost day.
In fact I was as skittish as an old women wondering were her beloved pet might be after not hearing it yelp for more then ten minutes. The motel felt like a giant mausoleum for unimaginative post-menopausal women dragging their duckling daughters behind them just to let them rot in their room after 8pm. Built in the late 70s it was one of those architectural abominations that feature huge windows which will never open and a slowly meandering vent trying to move the damp and air-conditionally frozen air from one end of the room to the the other.
I have never understood the ida of having a pool inside. Water, I my opinion, is something that belongs to the outside world. I love it as long it stays in the confinement of my shower tub and the general area of the bathroom (I’m not overly concerned with the cleanliness of my daily morning routine), however, everything exceeding one litre makes me slightly uncomfortable. This pool was not only several cubic metres larger, it also started to loose the inherent qualities of water: transparency, odorlessness and fluidity. Generations of children, unwashed underwear and the frequent use of chemicals to counter the inevitable results had given the water a texture close to cold vodka.
The atrium enclosing this horribly failed experiment of sanitized fun didn’t make in any better – it may have just been me, but the percentage of chlorine which mixed with the water may have matched that in the surrounding air.
In spite of all this, there was still life. Similar to the volcanic swamps covering this planet in the beginning of time which for all the sulfur and heat didn’t stop the first cellular structures from merrily zipping around this pool virtually seemed to breed mothers and children.
Since I don’t mind children I was happily letting the more voyeuristic side of my character take over (always carefully staying behind a closed glass veranda to avoid contact with the possibly irritating substances in the pool) while reading a seemingly never ending fantasy novel.
While I’m at it: let me tell you that having a long novel with you does not distract you from a rainy day that you’re spending in a impossibly ugly motel, as long as you’re trying to use it as a matter of distraction. It’s Murphy’s Law of Boring Hotel Rooms – the longer the time a person has to spend in a ridiculously confined space the longer the time stretches. Thus a long story becomes an endless story and consequently time stops. Ingenious, isn’t it?
I have to admit this logic might be a bit flawed but then again: logic never has been one of my strong suits.