The week after she died in her sleep, her bed was sold at the estate sale.
- for Mary
10.1.10
Writing Gives Me Bad Posture
My back is folded in half and my neck hangs to the floor. Slowly, in inches, I touch my toes to my nose.
Inside Guilt
I am getting nowhere. I am still inside.
I should be outside right now. I should be soaking in the sun and covering my private parts with the clouds. I feel dirty inside.
I should be outside right now. I should be soaking in the sun and covering my private parts with the clouds. I feel dirty inside.
9.1.10
Voyeur is me
I don’t have much sun left. The sky is a pinkish blue, which technically is a shade of purple, but what you see are pinkish shades of blue, which are fading fast too.
I want to try and tell you what I am seeing through my window. For those that have seen it, I wonder if my words will be able to construct and accurate image?
The apartment that I live in stares across a grass courtyard at the mirror image of itself. There are six units attached to each other that look like six little white tents in a row—with the window of each unit located where the tent flaps would meet. All six white tents look like they are covered in a large, black rain blanket and are huddling close together for warmth and safety—staked down at either end by a brick chimney, because the ones on the ends have fireplaces. I live in the one that is in the middle of the row on the left—where there are two blue doors facing one another. My door is the door on the right—the one my back is facing, with the window to my right—the one where you can see the guy inside who has been staring at his reflection in the window ever since it turned dark outside.
No, wait… it looks like he just closed the curtain. I didn’t say anything about it to him. I just kept my mouth shut and kept typing. I am guessing he thought it was getting dark enough outside to begin seeing inside—and being that close to the window, he might frighten the people outside.
I want to try and tell you what I am seeing through my window. For those that have seen it, I wonder if my words will be able to construct and accurate image?
The apartment that I live in stares across a grass courtyard at the mirror image of itself. There are six units attached to each other that look like six little white tents in a row—with the window of each unit located where the tent flaps would meet. All six white tents look like they are covered in a large, black rain blanket and are huddling close together for warmth and safety—staked down at either end by a brick chimney, because the ones on the ends have fireplaces. I live in the one that is in the middle of the row on the left—where there are two blue doors facing one another. My door is the door on the right—the one my back is facing, with the window to my right—the one where you can see the guy inside who has been staring at his reflection in the window ever since it turned dark outside.
No, wait… it looks like he just closed the curtain. I didn’t say anything about it to him. I just kept my mouth shut and kept typing. I am guessing he thought it was getting dark enough outside to begin seeing inside—and being that close to the window, he might frighten the people outside.
8.1.10
Unbecoming of Us
Enemies become neighbors
until
neighbors become enemies
because
what is ours
is part yours,
but also part mine.
until
neighbors become enemies
because
what is ours
is part yours,
but also part mine.
4.1.10
Yourself versus Myself
When I write to myself, you can read it for yourself.
When I write yourself, you will read in yourself.
When you say yourself, you are talking about myself.
When you ask yourself, you listen to yourself.
When I ask myself about yourself, we both get confused.
Ultimately, finding a meaning for writing this is ridiculous, when the meaning to what I have written can only be interpreted by yourself.
When I write yourself, you will read in yourself.
When you say yourself, you are talking about myself.
When you ask yourself, you listen to yourself.
When I ask myself about yourself, we both get confused.
Ultimately, finding a meaning for writing this is ridiculous, when the meaning to what I have written can only be interpreted by yourself.
