Elephant

I stand in the doorway to my living room. With the exception of the ceiling, I have made it red, black, and gold. The first focal point from the doorway is a painting of a man with his back facing the viewer. He's wearing a gold shirt with black pants against a red background-the viscid oil blurs the lines, but distinctly there is this trio of colour. This painting inspires the mood of the room. The anonymity of the man with black hair, the fluid gold shirt that compels one to guess its texture and fabric; the pants that are regular. I have made it to feel comfortably familiar-indeed, all the objects are completely recognizable. I do not wander into modern art, I do not include lava lamps or bean bags. Everything has a purposeful shape.

The painting stands prominently among black and white photos, red splotches of acrylic paint flowers, and lascivious statues. There are gold pillows, there are black upholsteries, there are burgundy lampshades. There is an Indian table made of Indian rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; perhaps this table was carried in with the elephant in the middle of the room.

I'm not crazy. There is an elephant in the middle of the room. We all have them, you know; the large, overbearing, space-consuming feature of ourselves that makes it impossible to navigate freely about our own environment. Some elephants hold martini glasses or wine bottles in their trunks, tempting some into alcoholism. Some elephants carry cartons of Camel Lights-irony not unnoticed-on their backs. Some wear aprons as did abusive mothers, some have Fs for Failure emblazoned on their sides. Some elephants recline, shooting up heroin, snorting cocaine. One breed of elephant carries a trunk full of letters from mistresses, another breed carries abortion death certificates. The last carry itchy rashes and burning sensations.

My elephant is boring. He looks at me with lustful eyes, lengthening his trunk, imploring me for attention. He snorts, he drools, he gets saliva on the carpet I bought from Istanbul, genie in a bottle not included. My elephant is a relationship.

He *looks* like fun. I rode real elephants in India, in Thailand, in Africa. Pay the keeper a Rupee, a Bhatt, a Shilling, and away you go. But in my own living room, it's not so easy. Individualized elephants take time to get ready before mounting; they need to be cajoled, they need to be stroked, reassured. Mounting requires stirrups and protection and a willingness to tolerate hairy legs and stubble. And there's a very strong likelihood that one will bang one's head. Or get slobbered on, or squirted. It happens.

My elephant makes cleaning very difficult to do. He's permanently standing on the Turkish rug I want to sweep secrets under. The rug needs to be beaten over the balcony; to let my filth and other unwanted nastiness fall to the ground outside, where it belongs; out of my own living space.

Some days I wish to come home, relax, and ignore the world. But the elephant craps all over my sacrosanct space, requiring massive cleanup projects. And somehow; somehow the elephant got into the fridge and ate the last sliver of foie gras, drank the last of my vodka, left the toilet seat down, got into the LancÈme, and put lipstick all over the mirror.

And he can't be killed, not for ivory, not for turning the legs into umbrella stands or trash cans, and the hide can't be used for anything wearable. Any rumor or threat to its existence and an entire generation raised on Bambi would bust my door down, stage protests, arrest me, restrain me. No one would ever hurt my elephant on Friends or on Days of Our Lives or in High School; my elephant is sacred, should be revered, should be cherished.

There is a consensus; I need to work out, eat better, save my money to buy the elephant dinner and presents and flowers and write poetry to it. Meanwhile it grows fat and contented, feeding on my embarrassment, resentment, desire, and curiosity. And maybe one day I'll be crazy enough to love it. Why not.