Her friend’s disappearance was not yet a matter of concern. Even as the shortening days announced the changing season. She had the car after all, that her friend had lent her, optimistically assuring her it would run for her thru summer. And now that that maxim had proved correct, the lended-to-friend was finding odd items in the trunk and crevices of the car that proved useful in various contingencies, and non-emergencies. An umbrella for shade at baseball games, for instance. A bungee. A canteen. A gospel CD. And the secret, silent ingenuity of these items reminded her of her friend and her continued disappearance.
This morning, at my desk, it is just a shade chilly, so that a light sweater is fetched. The silver keypad emits a crispness that rubs off onto my fingertips. A teacup nearby is a receptacle for brown liquid which slurped readily warms the throat and gullet. But outside on the porch, it is blazingly hot, inviting one to relax and bask in the sun’s rays, like a dazed vacationer.
I can see art on the wall of my new day-bed nook. Something neither small nor large, a medium-sized piece, although I don’t know whether it would be portraiture, or a landscape, or something realistic like a photograph. I also don’t know if I envision it framed or not, hanging from a nail or taped up.
Before I can decide what to procure for my viewing pleasure, I must paint the wall, whose present shade of green is decidedly sinister, not the warm luster which would best set off a work of art.
There is a lot to consider.
And while I’m cataloging desires, let me put down that since childhood I’ve hankered after a certain bed-prop/cushion/pillow which allows one to be fully functional while reclining. The house where I spotted this device was occupied by intellectuals who kept the complete works of L. Frank Baum on hand. I always thought that being able to comfortably read in bed would open many doors for me but at the same time I did not dare to mention this nor bare this request until now.
We talked about how we weren’t going to be together anymore and then I went downstairs to play some songs because it seemed like a comforting thing to do and he followed me into the studio and accompanied me on bass and we went back and forth selecting songs. The irony reached a pitch and I had the urge to record us for posterity though that was pointless since he was leaving; if this was the last time we would play these songs together a record of it was decidedly valuable, though desperately impractical. One only plans for the banal and unsurprising. The unexpected whirrs past; we lack a record but are rewarded with intensity.