Like a Train

Sitting with a friend in high-backed, gray velour chairs facing a picture window that faces a street busy with steady traffic.

The floors here are a blondish wood.

I miss wood floors.

Carpet is not my thing.

While I'm at it:

I miss basements.

(pause)

The past few weeks have been odd and bad and odd and good. It just depends on which day and which interaction you are referring to. I've been spending time trying to contain the emotional vomit wheel of someone else, whom I care about.  That's always rough. If you can imagine a room full of dandelion puffs floating around in the air and your job is to get them out of the air.  Of course some sort of water would be involved.  Wet them so that the weight of the water pulls them down to the ground.  Flattens them. Mats them to the ground.

Containment.

It's certainly a strange and imperfect art form.

(pause)

I've been listening to interviews with various authors, lately.  One that I was excited to listen to was one with Javier Marías about his book A Heart So White. It was beautiful to hear him discuss it in his own words, albeit not in his own language. Although he comes across as a pompous ass at times, his relationship to language and translation will always keep me sewn to him.

Be well; be loved,

k.

[If you're interested to listen to the interview mentioned, here is an online version of it. The comment the moderator makes about the argument she overhears in Spanish is fucking ridiculous and ignorant, and I appreciated and laughed at how Marías shut it down. #monolingualbullshit]