I’ve been having trouble sleeping. That is to say, I’ve been sleeping too much.
Every damn day, 10-hour nightmarathons - followed by drowsy, half-assed afternoons and late, fruitless evenings.
When I close my eyes, the pictures get clearer, the edges sharpen. I keep remembering new details, when I’d rather forget.
There are always the skeletal bystanders - ominous - stretching their ossified fingers forward from the lead-lined recesses of my mind. Them and their L.L Beans and torn Patagonia gear. Ergonomic baby bjorns slinging from bare cervical spines. And the scattered, dislodged booties. Dear god, the booties. Almost as sad as the empty cat carriers.
I haven’t had time to pursue my investigation. The near apocalyptic weather has kept me, for the most part, inside - thinking. When I do go out, it’s usually to the city for provisions. And frankly, there, I’m overwhelmed with suspicious behavior. But, then, it’s what you’d expect.
It’s here, in the quiet, park-lined, latte-stained streets of the pseudo suburbs where the real shit’s gonna go down. And, when it does, I’m not sure there’ll be a thing I can do to stop it.
I’m feeling a bit stir-crazy. Maybe I can tackle the steadily growing blob of laundry in the corner by the bed.
Back in Bushwick, I would drop off my black and blue cotton tees at this local dive, where the bundles I’d pick up were often light a few shirts. Once in a while, I’d find a strange dish towel buried somewhere amongst my actual possessions. Compensation, I suppose.
Here, there’s a machine in the basement, so I can adjust the settings and detergent levels to my liking, then go upstairs to force-feed my brain reruns of “Tailgate Warriors with Guy Fieri”, and never lose a sock.
Goddamn it. It’s all too convenient. I can’t stand it.