Sketchbook Collage 2 (2021)
I hoped the feng shui would fix it, but it appears all I accomplished was an accidental workout.
BY HALEY BENTHAM
IMAGE BY PATSY WISNIEWSKI
Day 1
When I was a kid, anytime we passed a crane in the car, I'd cry as we drove away. I don't remember this, of course, but my mom told me, and I’ve never forgotten. I like the idea that something in my little mind was so fascinated with the towering machines that it brought me to tears to see them fade into the distance. I told my friend once and she said, "That's pretty weird."
I decided to retire the anecdote. The memory surfaced through my brain fog unbidden as I passed the perpetual construction along the highway. I used to treasure the memory like a talisman. My Precious. Today, it feels like poking a bruise. I haven't talked to my mom in weeks.
I pull my prehistoric Beamer into the driveway, hearing the familiar, almost musical, crunching of recycling-bin-plastic under the tires. I backed over it two Tuesdays ago. My roommate insists that it's evidence of my careless disposition.
I'm not greeted by the deafening drone of Love Island today, so I know Cailyn has a shift. I begin my slow descent to my room; Virgil was off one. It's never easy. I push the door open, and some of the paint chipping around the edge slices my index finger. Muttering profanities and sucking at the blood, I survey the room. I always hated dull bedrooms. You know the ones—prints of the Eiffel Tower, Himalayan salt lamp, and six decorative pillows, minimum, atop the bleach-white bedspread. I used to pride myself on my room, imbuing it with as much personality as possible. Now it reads like a shrine, or a museum exhibition, and I feel sour.
I decide to attack it head-on. Feng shui always sounded like a cool concept, so I pull up a YouTube video. Half an hour later, my bed assumes the "command position." I've placed my nightstand on one side of the bed and my laundry hamper on the other (as an English major with no prospects, two nightstands is a lofty aspiration).
The hipster in the video says, "Remove any dying plants or cacti, as they drain your energy source." I pivot towards the mini, crispy cactus on my windowsill. "Two for two," I mutter and dunk it into the trash can. I arrange and rearrange for either one or six more hours until I realize it's 3:30 a.m.
My body is sinking into the bed. I'm convinced my composition is now 90% lead, and all my organs must have simply evaporated. Except for my brain, it chugs along and drags my body with it. Those two don't get along anymore. So, I started joking that it's an abusive relationship. My brain is narcissistic and controlling, but my body's codependent, so it can't leave. The joke seems funnier in the daytime.
There's a strange sound at 4:11 a.m., like an effect from a sci-fi film. A loud whirring without a discernible source, like it's coming from everywhere at once. I wonder if it's a UFO. More likely, though, it's the cars from the freeway. The highway always seems small at night.
Why is that? I picture it from above, lights flickering across a blackened strip of ground. Maybe I just want to imagine something that makes me feel insignificant as insignificant. When I'm on the highway the cars in my mirror look like fierce metallic beasts charging, never giving up the chase. Highways remind me how easy it is to die. One idiot drops his morning bagel and WHAM. Pancaked before you know what's what. I fall asleep dreaming of breakfast.
Day 2
Today is one of those days where the world makes you pay for it.
I sit up and hope it's gone away. It hasn't. I can't tell if I'm growing, a scientific impossibility at twenty-one, or if my room is shrinking, which seems equally improbable. Either way, something has been off for weeks. I half expect to wake up one day Gregor'd—unwieldy and out of place. I hoped the feng shui would fix it, but it appears all I accomplished was an accidental workout.
I lie in bed until my stomach starts gnashing at my insides and the shadows on the wall grow long. I debate ordering food and then spot my phone on my desk. Five feet away is five feet too far. At 4:00 p.m., I hear soft raps at the door and it creaks open. My roommate, Cailyn, steps inside and something unidentifiable flickers across her expression. Then, as swiftly as it appears, it's replaced with her signature kilowatt smile.
"Careful with the door. It's beastly. Nearly got me yesterday," I say as I hold my injured finger in the air. Cailyn leaps away from the door in mock horror and comes to rest beside me. She gently takes my hand, still poised in the air, and examines my finger.
"I think you've got a few years left yet," she says, grinning.
"Unfortunately," I say as I roll my eyes. A strange look passes over her again. She hops up quickly and makes a dramatic sweeping motion to the room.
"What have you done here? Interior designing?" she asks.
"Feng shui-ing," I respond. “Poorly."
"Have you tried the Marie Kondo method?" I shake my head, and I can see her prepare to launch into her easy, upbeat cadence. "Well, I watched her Netflix show, so I'm an expert now. Basically, you take inventory of all your possessions and ask yourself if they spark joy. Then, ditch whatever doesn't and keep the rest."
"Not a terrible idea, although I take exception to 'spark joy' for being unforgivably corny," I say.
"I'll dig up some boxes from the storage room," she says and flounces out of the room.
I emerge from my comforter-cocoon and analyze the room using my new Marie Kondo wisdom. By the time Cailyn returns, I have a hefty pile.
"Look what I foun— what are you doing?" she says as she moves to stand over the pile.
"What do you mean?" I ask.
"Most of this pile is art supplies, your books, clothes... that's your favourite sweater!"
"You said to decide what sparks joy. I did that. I don't see a reason to keep them, and I never paint now. I also don't read beyond my syllabi anymore. It's good! You said yourself that materialism is toxic." My voice has risen and my throat feels scratchy.
"Materialism is toxic to an extent. You love this stuff. Why get rid of it?" she says. Her eyes are wide, and I'm confused by the serious tone she's adopted.
"I did love it all, but I just don't think I need it anymore. This is spring cleaning. It's a good thing," I say. I smile and hope it looks convincing.
"Alright, spring cleaning then. I have to change for work, but I'll be back in a few hours," she says. I can tell from the weariness in her eyes she's unconvinced. I watch her as she leaves, and I remain in place as I listen to her footsteps on the stairs. I feel drained from the conversation but decide to box up all the sparkless objects anyways—old Nancy Drews from my grandmother and my copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Yes: copies, plural. Which is precisely why they must go.
I seal the final box and stack them along the wall beside the door. Seven boxes. I turn and take in my Marie Kondo'd room. It's pretty empty, but for the first time in a long time it feels like I can breathe. This is better. I nod once to myself and get ready for bed.
Day 3
In the fresh light of morning, the room seems cluttered and claustrophobic again. My body feels cumbersome, like it can't navigate the space. I begin my joy analysis and start to box up more possessions that don't meet the threshold. I'll wait a few more days before going to the donation centre.
Day 6
The boxes have proliferated. It takes me ten trips to get them all out to the car. I load them in, circle around to the driver's side, and promptly adhere to the seat with sweat. I realize, after ten minutes on the highway, I forgot to buckle up. My hand aches to complete the task but my brain says, "You made it this far alright, right?" I leave it be.
I pull up behind the donation centre, and a guy with the most untamed beard I've ever seen approaches.
"Hi there, how many boxes ya got?" he asks.
"Thirteen," I say.
"Damn. Let me get the dolly," he says, and heads towards the back entrance.
I drum my fingertips along the steering wheel and fidget while I wait. My poor little index finger appears to have healed quite nicely, so I tap along painlessly. I see the bearded man approach once again. He heads to the back of my car, and I pop the trunk. He swiftly loads all thirteen of the boxes atop the dolly and pulls up alongside my window.
"Got 'em all. You movin' or something?" he asks.
"No," I reply.
"Oh. Spring cleaning?" he asks.
"Sort of," I smile. He blinks and stares at me like I'm crazy. I probably am. I stare back. Before it transforms into an all-out staring contest, I nod and begin to roll up my window. As I pull away, I see him watching my car until I disappear.
Day 7
I lean with my back against the wall, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The wall across from me is populated with my sprawling art collection. It's designated as my gallery wall-wall. There are ten pieces in total of varied shape, size, and frame orientation. Each one represents something precious—a time of happiness, elusive and flimsy like the gossamer of some elaborate gown. The pieces are as follows: a Lawren S. Harris postcard from the Art Gallery of Ontario, a Jenny Holzer truism on handmade pulp paper, an oil painting from my grandmother by an unknown artist, a postcard of an image of Cork Harbour in Ireland, a clock from Prague, a silkscreen print with a Yeats quote from the Writers Museum in Dublin, a Barbara Kruger print, a sketch of Matthias Church from a market in Budapest, a cover from The New Yorker featuring The Guggenheim, and a "Make Art Not War" piece from Liverpool.
I turn the memories of each particular place and time over, unearthing them like damp roots. Before, when I couldn't sleep, I'd move across the gallery wall from left to right, studying each carefully until, somewhere along the wall, I'd drift off. They felt like a promise. Now they seem excessive.
I think of my mom again. She'd scold me whenever I'd complain about how transitory happiness is. We would bicker about it.
"How do you know you're happy?" I asked.
"Maybe happiness is contextual or subjective. I don't know," she said.
"I think I'd just like to see a plane someday and not wish I was on it," I replied. She looked stricken by my words. I can still picture the look on her face perfectly.
I move from my place on the floor until I'm standing in front of the gallery wall. I do my routine, moving across the wall from left to right one last time as I remove each piece from its place and stack them on the floor. Matthias Church is the last to go. I never even went in. I pack the pieces carefully into a box and slide them outside my door.
I move back to my place across from my ex-gallery-wall wall and settle back onto the floor. All that's left is me, a bed, a lamp, and ten hooks.
It still seems too much.
Haley Bentham is a student in the Humber Professional Writing and Communications program. She is an avid reader and writer, and this is her first published piece.
Image: Patsy Wisniewski, Sketchbook Collage 2, coloured pencils on sketching paper, 2021.
Edited for publication by Liam St. John, as part of the Creative Book Publishing Program.
The HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Applied Research & Innovation.