Many years ago, I practiced daily routines which allowed me to feel in control in periods where I felt I had none. I would wake up at 6:45 am precisely, wait exactly 5 minutes, get up, brush my teeth for 3, wash my face 2, sweep my hair back into a tight ponytail (always a red scrunchy). I wore several bracelets on one arm, many of them cheap crystals for calm and luck. I had outfits picked out the night before to avoid the morning lull and indecision. Before leaving the house, I would cut a slender slice of cake, and bring the piece with me to the car, then eat it as we drive past the cemetery on the Williamsburg bridge. There is peace in repetition and precision.
On days when the sleep was too deep or certain aspects of the morning took longer than usual, the whole order can be thrown off, toppling whatever preordained structure one had ready for the day. It used to give me bad stomachaches to not be able to complete each aspect all the way through.
Then one day, I pulled too hard on one of my bracelets, and all the faux jade beads spurted upward like a geyser and then not-so-gracefully projectiled down the stairs of P.S.2. Then, each bracelet, week by week started breaking until in the end, only two remained.
Order is more than just objects. It's the inner compulsion to make sense of an external reality which is unpredictable and volatile. Even after bracelets, the same red scrunchy everyday (patterns), I do wonder which parts linger. As in, if withdrawal is another means of order sometimes--those inarticulate moments, you know? Quiet. Reflection. Control. Peace. Stasis.
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