locked in perpetual motion
It's huge of course, the room. Which is how things go when they pay for you to do things like speak.
There are 2 beds. I want to say king size, but really anything larger than a twin is just different shades of more-than-enough. On one wall, over a chaise longue patterned in gray and brown with gold-themed cushions hangs a series of paintings. Silhouettes, almost stenciled. A man and woman caught in a tango. The bottom half of a dog. Above that, a separate portrait of its head. A woman in a dress that bunches slightly over her hips and pools at her feet. There's the sheen of a headband, Wonder Woman-style, barely seen, shadowed as it is. Next to the chaise and directly preceding the life-size mirror by the door is a cushioned stool, presumably what I'm supposed to sit on while unlacing my shoes. There's of course the large cupboard and the tv on top. And next to that, a desk and corresponding leather chair.
The room is all different shades of brown and gray, even the carpet.
The bathroom is a palace all on its own.
Generally, fatigue is supposed to signal sleep, but of late it generally fertilizes the ground for anger and old ways of being. It resists entry of foreign forces, repels entreaties, burns bridges and salts the earth. It picks fights.
I forget sometimes that it is within my toolbox to say simply "I'd rather not" with regards to talking about something, especially when that something implicates family and expectations and work and achievement and disappointment.
I went for a walk after checking in. In search of fresh air as well as "fresh air", eventually stumbling on the object of my quest not at the CVS I'd spotted but at a 7-11 by Dupont Circle. I'd taken Connecticut Avenue all the way up, at one point enlisting the aid of a bookseller. It was perhaps my shortest stay in a bookstore. But I perambulated and without my ever-present music to distract me, much to the desired effect.
In the pilot episode, I believe, of Justified, the main character US Marshal Raylan Givens has a moment on a balcony with his ex-wife. The picture painted of him so far is that of a laconic 19th century lawman. He's got the hat and the boots and the drawl. And as good as he is with a gun, he always seems reluctant to get to that point where he pulls the trigger. And as reluctant as he seems to pull that trigger, he seems to do it a lot. On that balcony, he confesses to his ex-wife that he doesn't fancy himself an angry man. His ex-wife replies that he's the angriest man she's ever known.
In Peaky Blinders, it's a bit more obvious, the linkage between anger and violence but there's brotherhood and joy in it too. The way they hug each other does damage.
Lastly, my thoughts amble towards Bartleby the Scrivener. "I prefer not to" what was that? Self-preservation? Self-actualization? I don't know but it seems to hold for me at least some sort of key. And while I've spent all this time trying to force this door open, to grant Her access and let Her into whatever maelstrom is on this side, it seems all parties might be better served were that door left to close, returned to its natural state.
There's no need for that violence.
There are 2 beds. I want to say king size, but really anything larger than a twin is just different shades of more-than-enough. On one wall, over a chaise longue patterned in gray and brown with gold-themed cushions hangs a series of paintings. Silhouettes, almost stenciled. A man and woman caught in a tango. The bottom half of a dog. Above that, a separate portrait of its head. A woman in a dress that bunches slightly over her hips and pools at her feet. There's the sheen of a headband, Wonder Woman-style, barely seen, shadowed as it is. Next to the chaise and directly preceding the life-size mirror by the door is a cushioned stool, presumably what I'm supposed to sit on while unlacing my shoes. There's of course the large cupboard and the tv on top. And next to that, a desk and corresponding leather chair.
The room is all different shades of brown and gray, even the carpet.
The bathroom is a palace all on its own.
Generally, fatigue is supposed to signal sleep, but of late it generally fertilizes the ground for anger and old ways of being. It resists entry of foreign forces, repels entreaties, burns bridges and salts the earth. It picks fights.
I forget sometimes that it is within my toolbox to say simply "I'd rather not" with regards to talking about something, especially when that something implicates family and expectations and work and achievement and disappointment.
I went for a walk after checking in. In search of fresh air as well as "fresh air", eventually stumbling on the object of my quest not at the CVS I'd spotted but at a 7-11 by Dupont Circle. I'd taken Connecticut Avenue all the way up, at one point enlisting the aid of a bookseller. It was perhaps my shortest stay in a bookstore. But I perambulated and without my ever-present music to distract me, much to the desired effect.
In the pilot episode, I believe, of Justified, the main character US Marshal Raylan Givens has a moment on a balcony with his ex-wife. The picture painted of him so far is that of a laconic 19th century lawman. He's got the hat and the boots and the drawl. And as good as he is with a gun, he always seems reluctant to get to that point where he pulls the trigger. And as reluctant as he seems to pull that trigger, he seems to do it a lot. On that balcony, he confesses to his ex-wife that he doesn't fancy himself an angry man. His ex-wife replies that he's the angriest man she's ever known.
In Peaky Blinders, it's a bit more obvious, the linkage between anger and violence but there's brotherhood and joy in it too. The way they hug each other does damage.
Lastly, my thoughts amble towards Bartleby the Scrivener. "I prefer not to" what was that? Self-preservation? Self-actualization? I don't know but it seems to hold for me at least some sort of key. And while I've spent all this time trying to force this door open, to grant Her access and let Her into whatever maelstrom is on this side, it seems all parties might be better served were that door left to close, returned to its natural state.
There's no need for that violence.