I buy one hundred percent cotton socks whenever I can, though often there's just a mix of eighty percent cotton and twenty percent nylon around, so I've mastered wearing this combination, adjusted to it, since it's healthy to be flexible, but many people aren't, and I, too, in my mind or especially my body, where habit and rigidity shape demands and inclinations, sometimes can't exhort myself to the plasticity or fluidity I know is good for my health, and often I think few would survive if war came and deprived them of what they thought was necessary. If they couldn't eat what they wanted here, many would be lost. Some fabric combinations are still better than others because better cotton is used, and the best thing about my father was how he touched material, how he let it drift through his adept fingers, while the expression on his face changed, his concentration attuning itself to the feel of the material, or when he looked through a small magnifying glass at a thread or weighed one on his golden machine, whose sharp needle could quickly pierce the skin on your finger. Socks can also scratch, but I have no worry about how they look or what they mean, though I accept they have some meaning, since nothing has no meaning, though some theologians think evil is nothing since a god wouldn't create it, but I dislike religion, since people are often promised a better life, a glorious afterlife, and worship deities who censor or condemn them to wretchedness on earth. Calvinism doesn't forgive its congregants, and most religions threaten those who don't subscribe to their beliefs, everyone suffers because of religion or from faith or the lack of faith. I don't know what to have faith in, except people, who are as irascible as the Bible's Jehovah, though not as omniscient.
I'll wander into a store and casually buy a pair or two of socks. Jerry Lewis throws away socks after he wears them once, and I'd like to do that, because it may be wrong and is certainly indulgent, and also because doing laundry is repetitive, and throwing away socks makes less laundry, though I dislike washing dishes and doing laundry less than I did when I was younger, when everything imposed on me was a big waste of time, but now I'm not certain what's a waste of time, or what's nothing, since I may find something when not looking, and because time is all we have, inexplicably. Almost lackadaisically, I toss a pitcher of water onto the blazing fire, dousing it while explaining to myself the reasons I shouldn't have, because I'll have to deal with the aftermath later, but I do anyway, as it's urgent that I leave this room, a temporary shelter or refuge, though some people here refuse to accept temporariness, although it's all there is. A woman chained herself to her bed, a man boarded his door against intruders, and they were removed, forcibly, returned to their respective homes, and I can understand not resigning yourself to the inevitable, but I wouldn't tie myself to my bed, I don't think. The woman who chained herself there also sucked men's toes, and, at night, uninvited, though some left their doors unlocked, she entered their bedrooms, they'd awaken with her at their feet, their toes in her mouth, she was sucking greedily, and some were annoyed, but some enjoyed it, though they never admitted it. Some may have a phobia about all types of sucking, and the library's sex manual cites many fears I'd not heard of or that may be out of fashion, like "Clavestitism, a morbid desire to put on the dresses one wore in childhood," or "Syphilomania, an inclination to attribute all illness to syphilis," though "Venerophobia, a morbid fear of sexual intercourse" persists, and one night at dinner, following a lackluster day, I recited some of the more remote sexual fears to the table, and Spike, with her enthusiasm, ready laugh, and brilliant, long hair, who always liked talking about sex, though rarely had an opening, joined in, charged especially by hearing about "voice fetishism," of which the dictionary said: "The voice is one of the strongest sexual fetishes, many men actually fall in love with a voice, even with a voice heard over the telephone, and cannot free themselves from its spell." I understand coming under a spell, though I didn't expect in my case it was a voice that seduced me, but I could imagine it, and I didn't mention my thralldoms to anyone at the table, and only Spike spoke uninhibitedly about men's voices she grooved on, she said, and phone sex that the dictionary anticipated but didn't define, in which she engaged with her necessarily absent lover, but the demanding man's skin flared and darkened, the disconsolate women's faces sunk, the psoriatic character shoved her food almost off her plate, while the tall balding man smiled, though not at her, since blatancy might shriek his mating call, and I thought: I won't do this again. Although, in some way, to be honest, the way the daughter of time must be, their active disdain also satisfied me. Not long after, a Turkish man appeared, a translator and poet in need of a long rest and quiet-his commercial interests allowed him to write what he wanted and to travel, he owned a paper and carton factory-and he muttered to me before dinner that there should be more sex here, everywhere, and that I in particular should have more sex in everything. He was passionate about his beliefs, especially about translation, sex and sexlessness, and he and I would discuss this more soon enough.
The town is two miles away, a reasonable distance for a walk, and it is also an oasis or a distraction, so I'm not trapped here, except with myself or by encounters with, for instance, the two young women, who have made my entering the main hall a problem; the staff, who subtly inquire if I'm making progress, did I enjoy the meeting, lecture, or session I attended, or the tall balding man, who, when he is alone might expound on his malaise, after he has run ten miles and smells rank, but is unaware of this, while his palms pool with sweat, the effect of primary palmar hyperhidrosis, which may be genetic, and causes its sufferers great anxiety. I don't want him to hold my hand, the way he likes, while employing his neurosis as efficiently and seductively as he can. But if I don't enter the main hall, I'm not deterred from my walk. Still, I'm often drawn there, as if a voice called me to it, and, like dousing a fire, when I tell myself I shouldn't and instead to think about the consequences, I do enter the spacious, dark wood room, whose corners are sometimes decorated with one or two residents gazing at photographs of lakes, deer, and birds, or the director and staff taking a break; but I'm eager for excitement or surprise, and there may await something unexpected, though usually here, and elsewhere, what is unexpected isn't. I know the Count is sleeping and Contesa rarely shows her face before dinner, needing all the solitude she can get after breakfast; Spike, with the ready laugh, is in her cabin, talking on her cell phone or studying and writing formulae; the inventor, whose restless innovations may be the result of prostalgia, is joining lengths of copper tubing together; the demanding man is sulking, though he might even be in the main hall, waiting for attention, and yesterday I attempted to avoid it but walked in, anyway, which I can't explain, even to myself, except that I'd scheduled a therapeutic massage later and had only time to kill, since that's all there is.