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R.I.P. Beautiful, I’m Finding the Zenith

R.I.P. Beautiful, I’m Finding the Zenith

Once a week, Rebecca drinks a different type of alcohol and writes a rough draft. She edits sober. Last week was cough syrup. This week is all kinds of shit.

Out of guilt, I searched Google hoping to see a worthless billion, but there is no tall record player quite like the one I just destroyed. Not a’one.

I was alone in the apartment, whining the word time to myself as I often do, “I don’t have any time to write. I don’t have time to go to the bank.”

The Victim

The Victim

It was gradual. I only pulled apart the turntable on the antique record player at first, while reciting my schedule and panicking. “I’ll freeze some soup because I don’t have time to make dinner this week.”

Before, I’d planned to save time by writing this post after a night out with friends. Bad idea. My grimy body can barely lift a t-shirt.

I found them sitting at table in the center of dozens of slurring strangers that night. Drunken foreign butts grazed the back of their heads. I drank vodka something and a beer. We moved from the bar to the venue: a black box, a loud sucky band, and another two drinks.

In minutes, my voice sounded like someone shoved toothpicks down my larynx. A shot of tequila appeared in my hand… sure, okay! And another one, great! It takes an hour or two for me to fall into a bush, content to stay there for a while.

The mug in my hand feels iron heavy now. After at least eight bouts of vomit, my body is hollow and slight. I lean on a tall record player in the living room. It probably hasn’t played music in over a decade. It doesn’t even fit in the room – only looks cool and facilitates toe stubbing.

I panic. A creative “zenith” by way of alcohol – finding it is harder than I thought it would be. I can barely bring myself to eat a bagel, let alone drink more. “I don’t have time,” I whisper to myself. “Oh shut up and make time.” Well when am I going to have time to do laundry? Clean the bathroom? Eat fruits and vegetables?

I start removing the turntable on the big record player with a flathead screwdriver. If I could use it as a shelf, unclutter the room a bit, that will help. I unscrew the round plate and find it connected to the inside by wires. Surely, this won’t take too much time. I remove the backside with a wrench and see a structure intricately connected by smeared yellow glue and wires.

I need time to exercise, to research, to relax, to watch the news. I don’t have time for a social life. I have no time to read.

My boyfriend and his brother bought this thing years ago at some antique shop. It takes me about five seconds to decide that I‘m going to gut it.

To shop for birthday presents, oh god and Christmas is soon. There’s no time for anything. How is life going to be when I have kids or own property? How am I going to get health insurance?

There is a giant hole where the turntable used to be. Well, it can’t be a shelf now. I pull a chair up to it – could be desk, I’ll fix out the hole… I’ve needed a desk. Shouldn’t take too long. I stick my head through the back and start yanking wires, pulling out old rusty nails with the back of a hammer.

It all makes dust expand and fall. Every crevasse is lined with some kind of white powder. At this point, my whole body hurts and I’m sweating too much for the cold weather. Wires, wood, shiny plastic and speaker netting circle the tall record player and me. It takes awhile but I manage to heave the now striped structure to the porch.

The record player lies on its side. I sing with a tired and chalky voice, Heeeelllllooooo from the outsiiiiiiiide. I poke the wood with my tilted heel, testing how hard I need to stomp to break through. I must have called a thousand tiiiiiiiiiimes.

Once the wood collapses, I see a bug carcass wedged between two small planks. I sing to the bug carcass. To tell you I’m sorrrrry / For the things that I’ve donnnneeee. Then I blow him out of his tomb with a quick puff. A few hours pass, hours I could have spent doing so much and now I have to deal with this:


I feel better though. Sometimes we just need to destroy before we build. I concede that nothing is a waste of time.

Stay tuned for next week:


Rebecca Arrowsmith
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About The Author

Rebecca Arrowsmith

Rebecca Arrowsmith is an artist and writer living in Atlanta.

Real Pants

Good hair, crooked gait

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