The Apartment
Other buildings envied her Shisheido #119 ceiling. The Jesus she hung at the door (of her heart) gave her strength. Jade bangles around her ankles trapped the essene of her youth. You could hear them holding on for dear life whenever she got up and ran, ran with the other Apartments and Factories into the night. No one knew where she went, returning only when her ankles ached to keep up the night's display of high spirits. Come morning, some proud Apartment would be seen wearing a night's old #119.
One morning, after a night out with the concrete army, the Apartment got home tired and weary, ankles swollen. She took off her bangles, and in the hours that passed while she slept, they were stolen from her. The wind only whispers of words no one cards to claim. That it was another high-rise, was merely wind-work: she had been seen dancing, like a Portuguese Gypsy, her check pressed against the night...
The Apartment still stands with her chin in the clouds and Jesus close to her heart. The years have washed away her make-up and advanced the arthritis to her wanderlust. Cracks, and an address keeps her where she will always be. Once, a lover came to her. He could have made her young again, but light would get lost along her corridors, and she had too many empty rooms.
Now, she watches her children grow. First playrooms, then study-rooms. The hearts in each room gets smaller as the walls get bigger. The doors never open. One day, they will leave this nest, and she would not even know. She tries to glow in the kitchen, in the company of toasters, ovens, and stoves. In the bathroom, she hides her daytime mask under damp towels. It is here that her skin is forever slippery and cold. Here, something is always dripping.
Every afternoon, her windows reflect a great migration of clouds. In her belly, a projector loops. Vignettes of her children tugging at the hem of her best summer dress, dragging her across gravel, and running through her hair with muddy boots breathe life into the dancer in the dusty basement. She interprets the cinematic moments, moving without music. The Apartment waits for the day when clouds drift by the other way. The Cranes will return... and the scaffolds fall away... Until then, the table will only be for two: Jesus, and herself. Even then, he rarely ever comes by.
--- Perry Ho's The Apartment ---
One morning, after a night out with the concrete army, the Apartment got home tired and weary, ankles swollen. She took off her bangles, and in the hours that passed while she slept, they were stolen from her. The wind only whispers of words no one cards to claim. That it was another high-rise, was merely wind-work: she had been seen dancing, like a Portuguese Gypsy, her check pressed against the night...
The Apartment still stands with her chin in the clouds and Jesus close to her heart. The years have washed away her make-up and advanced the arthritis to her wanderlust. Cracks, and an address keeps her where she will always be. Once, a lover came to her. He could have made her young again, but light would get lost along her corridors, and she had too many empty rooms.
Now, she watches her children grow. First playrooms, then study-rooms. The hearts in each room gets smaller as the walls get bigger. The doors never open. One day, they will leave this nest, and she would not even know. She tries to glow in the kitchen, in the company of toasters, ovens, and stoves. In the bathroom, she hides her daytime mask under damp towels. It is here that her skin is forever slippery and cold. Here, something is always dripping.
Every afternoon, her windows reflect a great migration of clouds. In her belly, a projector loops. Vignettes of her children tugging at the hem of her best summer dress, dragging her across gravel, and running through her hair with muddy boots breathe life into the dancer in the dusty basement. She interprets the cinematic moments, moving without music. The Apartment waits for the day when clouds drift by the other way. The Cranes will return... and the scaffolds fall away... Until then, the table will only be for two: Jesus, and herself. Even then, he rarely ever comes by.
--- Perry Ho's The Apartment ---