shaving

In shaving in the morning, after a shower, standing naked beneath the stripped multicolored toweling robe. We put on a white face as through to play a bearded clown, the hot wet brush smoothing the scented foam onto bare skin, for a few brief moments you study your now white face, a finite parenthesis standing on the edge of the day, through its now nine (9) hours old, about to enter the quiet fray of everyday life. As the razor is lifted, just as the moments earlier when you wake up you have another set of concise and fresh ideas that will either fade away or be written down, memories of reading the preface earlier “ïn the imperialist epoch the contradictions of capitalist system reach their greatest intensity. And the class struggle grows intensely sharp…..” as we shave we know everything is possible. The body stands before the mirror occupied with its own care, as the razor sweeps down a cheek (do you have cheeks?) you pay attention to the simplest thought, the most complex tale told by someone, the mind accepts it and thinks of running away, perhaps not goin got work but leaving and going to C to walk around the empty city. Looking for the reserves who will not vanish. Here though as you rinse your face washing off the remains of the soap, drying your face before putting on some aftershave balm, was that a good shave you wonder running your finger tips over your face, looking for the hair that escaped the blade. Something or something, this act of moving from the bathroom to the bedroom and closet where the clothes are, as you select what to wear you have walked across the abyss which threatened the existence of the day…