A Room Somewhere

The walls are white, not the soft magnolia of new homes but the stark, sun-bleached white of Spanish monasteries or Provençal cottage kitchens. An iron cross made out of old horseshoes hangs on one wall, beneath it there are always fresh flowers. The sweet, earthy scent of myrrh unfurls through the room, the windows are open to cars and radios and kicked cans and starlings.

I lie on the soft cream bedlinen, mind untethered; I can while whole seasons away like this, the same bittersweet songs playing, the same food every day. In these contemplative pockets I finally find respite from the addict inside who craves novelty and flees from boredom. In these times I cultivate boredom like a beautiful orchid, I drift through the warmer days like a courtesan immersed in long, languid baths. I reflect on everything from the perfume poured on Christ’s feet to the scribbles in my old notebooks to the changing texture of my own skin as it enters a new, dimpled decade. The hours feel drugged, the clock becomes my lover and I can spend all day with him, watching the sun pray over that plain, white paint.

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When I come to, half the summer has gone, usually. Faded like the knees of my jeans as the days melt into each other like butter. I used to sip at pink wine in the bed like a bee regaining strength from sugar water, I wonder what it will be like now, sipping orange juice and green smoothies. A sour slice of yellow lemon in still or sparkling. I dare to hope I’ll write more, free from the shackles of liquor’s apathy which turned my blood to morphine.

I keep those quiet hours close to my heart, precious things pressed between scrapbook pages, mornings of easy solitude like wonderful seashells kept until the end of the holiday; afternoons like petals pulled from the pollen-heavy core of a flower, he loves me, he loves me…a little, madly, passionately, not at all. I become a dusky pink rose, sensual and drowsy with the weight of my own limbs. I hover above myself like pale steam, like incense. They are sacred, those hours, when all I want is a room, somewhere.

 

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11 thoughts on “A Room Somewhere

  1. Daedalus Lex

    I remember that stark, monastic white from my travels — the irony of a bleached out beauty. You, though, you are a master of imagery. Not only is it crisp and present, but you make it breathe with human connection. Gary

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Daedalus Lex

        If you’re not old enough to remember vinyl 45s, they are coming back. In the 1960s, each 45 had an ‘A’ side (the proposed hit) and a ‘B’ side (the filler). I remember how the ‘B’ side of Beatles 45s were better than everyone else’s ‘A’ sides (e.g., go listen to “Revolution,” which was the ‘B’ side for “Hey Jude” in 1968). Your “shaky” is like a Beatles ‘B’ side.

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Ekaterina Tretiakova

    There’s something very touching about this piece. I actually went back and read it twice. What made it stand out so much in my mind is that it came across as humane right down to the very fingertips of the story. It was so full of pain, and at the same time, sweetness. This was a highly evocative story. I look forward to reading more 🙂

    Like

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