i think that people like to read about the happenings of people, and that is why this.
the small sphere of golden light around me, so familiar. the slender laptop, so graceful. it reminds me of peering over shoulders on airplanes: the screen savers, the laptop backgrounds, all the personal accouterments, fantastic sprays and swirls as their music plays through earphones. sealed.
but here, this is my space. wooden desk. the flanking shelves severely rising. disorder - always. papers and a teacup. the bluegreen glass mug, fogged as seaglass, that i drink wine in.
i am thinking of theater, of my friend. of the straightforward sexuality of her friends. she performs. huge and little at the same time, she bears her firm small frame with enormity. with hilarity. pursed red lips she wore, a flouncing french maid's duds. we hung out at the bar. a palpable body, a physical presence. that's what the room was. i could have had my hands on everyone.
now - the room, expanding from a small round golden sphere - my solitude, that solitude of the human condition, irrevocable. the warm physical things that accompany it. a chair. a carpet. such simple things.
so this is my evening, to share with you - simplicity, a small room with a table and a potted plant, flowered - a friend living with us while she perform for two months, talking on her phone to her husband in her bedroom, the tones soft as low thunder. a balcony overlooking the city.
that is this.
Comments