I have a bathroom and a kitchen. I have a bed, a closet and a table for putting things. Usually I put things on top of the table, but sometimes I put them below it. I have bookshelves, too, and books I have read on one side and books I have not on the other. I have towels and changes of underwear. I have a bar of soap, a jar of pickles and a painting I picked up at a garage sale that has no sentimental value to me whatsoever. Nevertheless, it is part of my wall, which I also have. I have several walls, though I do not know how many. Eventually they lead to my front door, which is the last thing I have until the world becomes part of the conversation.
When I was younger, I thought I might have a house by now. As it is I have an apartment. I rent it month to month. It used to be much less than I could afford but these days it’s about all I can afford. So it goes. When I was younger I thought I’d someday have a four post bed, a canopy, a balcony, a dog, a backyard, an indoor pool, a piano and an adytum where I could receive oracles from something fashionably weird – a sphinx if available, though any talking chimera would do.
But my apartment is quite ordinary. My job is quite simple. My life is a manageable albeit modest affair.
Of course, the way you laugh is a magic act. It’s the little bit of abracadabra that makes this trick called living a little bit of alright. That and the Pacific coast.
I have those things for a little while. A little longer than the jar of pickles, maybe. A little shorter than the haircut of the sun.