The Alleged Review wherein Ross Nervig reviews whatever he feels like reviewing.
Is my pocket the culprit or is there, manufactured into my ear buds, an inherent sick-minded need to twist itself into a clot of rubber wires? Maybe they collude in the shifting dark of my jeans. The linen walls agitating them like rope in the spin cycle, the headphones looping curlicues ever inward. The knots they create make them appear sentient. These aren’t just simple knots but a nodo difficultas so Gordian I’ve nearly wishboned the branching cords down to the universally compatible 3.5mm headset jack in aggravation. Often, I’ve wanted to whip the literal rigamarole into the gutter. The Second Law of Thermodynamics states: everything tends toward entropy or disorder. No shit.
And I haven’t even mentioned when my key ring becomes embroiled. I’ve missed stairs, almost run into lamp poles, walked through puddles and dog shit and tripped off curbs during the disentangling process. The thought of this struggle serving as a synecdoche for a greater battle against the expanding chaos of existence, an existence I sometimes want to paint over with music only I can hear, casts a shadow like Sisyphus’ boulder. Omigod, I’m gonna be untying knots my entire life. Knots that re-knot themselves!
The music is no longer a balm. I feel poorly represented by the contents of my pockets, sitting there on the bus. A tuning fork shivering in the Key of Bedevilment. My favorite song – a song I can listen to on repeat – could be playing in my ears and I’d chafe against the harmony that usually mollifies me. There are coiling steps I could take before pocketing the damn things. My girlfriend keeps hers rubberbanded in a neat figure 8 – I could do that. A capable, streamlined individual could take these steps. I am ultimately culpable, I know this. I am a nest of snarls, whorls and vincula riding through the knotted city streets on a bus where entropy reigns in the faces of all but the children, who are being told to shut up.