From Now On, Boy, This Iron Boat's Your Home
I spent countless nights on my back porches. Cockroaches crawled up and down the back of my shirt. Rats scurried and chirped over the powerlines and through the gutters just beyond the tigercage. Mosquitoes chewed away at my ankles. None of this was enough to drive me inside, most nights. In the event of a typhoon, or a torrential downpour, I’d be driven inside, to my desk, or the kitchen table.
I stayed outside so I could smoke, usually. Smoke and drink coffee and listen to the records woquinoncoin and I played. The dog would usually join me. The tobacco smoke would drive him into the corner opposite me. On particularly muggy and stagnant nights, he’d sneeze.
By the time July, and then August, and then September rolled around, I’d find myself outside thinking that the temperature was more comfortable than it was inside.
My old Toshiba notebook, the one my Grandmother gave me before a nasty cerebrovascular accident began nudging her into the Great Beyond, acquired more than its fair share of tar and resin. The tar and resin brought God-knows-what out of the environment and glued it down on the keyboard, the screen, the vents. . . over the entire surface area of the machine, basically.
I found this endearing, initially, but other people found it disgusting.
The back porch on NanJing didn’t have room for a chair. I sat down on a stack of foam, floor mats, with my back against a wood shelf. I’d bring my knees in close to my chest, resting the laptop on my thighs, ensuring sterility and cramped wrists.
The back porch on MinQuan did have room for a chair. I’d sit-slouch, really-with the machine on my thighs. I was forced to look at the screen from a farther distance, and I think my eyesight, if not the way I used my eyes, improved as a result of this.
From now on, though, I think I’m doing all of my writing from a table.