Broken November Morning
Time alone with flurries and books.
There are bits of snow flurrying about outside. The light in this hardwood studio apartment spikes and drops, spikes and drops, creating various climate zones inside the small space. On the south side of the arch, where the sun blasts through the large south and west facing windows, heat lingers even when the sun is behind clouds. On the north side, progressing towards the kitchen, it's riotously cold. I finally threw on some pants about an hour ago, but am still in my light sleeping robe. I want to go outside like this and have a cigarette. Or maybe I should walk down to the 7-11 like this and buy some Eclipse cigarettes that are a little better for smoking inside. But then I remember the last time I stepped outside (not including the balcony) in this robe and in jeans, and I scream.
The flurries are heavier now. Salt falling, contrasted against the red brick neighboring building. I'm living with all my blinds open much of the time now, to let the broken beast be on display. And why not? I wonder what the neighbors see and think, if anything, seeing the pot-bellied shirtless man in red beard flopping around and screaming into a tuning mic while contorting around to reach and tweak knobs.
On page 270, I recognize the name of a porn star from the mid to late nineties that was a bit of a personal favorite. I chuckle, then sigh, missing old tapes tossed out during those foolish little moments of supposed morality. I don't know what I was trying to save myself from or for; and still don't.