Room to breathe (assuming one enjoys breathing stuffiness.)
What cruelty this is, writing about corporeal reality.
You know that line from Hotel California; “Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.”?
Well, what’s said about dancing can also be said about writing. After all, what is writing but an etymological dance? A performance art that can be enjoyed solo or together, for exercise, endorphin highs, or simply sheer boredom relief.
This is no structured dance though, no elegant waltz or athletically impressive tango, more of a feckless careen.
Still, you asked for it...
I’m sitting at our dining table, which is also our game-playing table. The wall directly in front of me is off-white, with a tiger (my profile icon) painted on it, the other walls are a drab army-green which I picked out of the clearance bin of reject colours at Home Depot. Surface cracks in the corners of entryways (ranging from hairline-fractures to deep crevices) tell of the over-burdened foundation. The floor (covered in a faux-wood vinyl, also on clearance) sports a few soft creaky spots I habitually avoid stepping on.
An old piano which nobody plays (graciously passed down by my husband’s now-deceased grandmother, who also never played it) takes up a great deal of space on one wall, adding a lovely air of fastidious sentimentality to the room, as well as serving it’s secondary function as a singlularly sturdy shelf for a few of the heavier books, along with a change-basket and a rather nice wooden chess set which (as evidenced by a disgraceful layer of dust I’m just now noticing) we also rarely play. On the wall opposite the piano are three shelves, One for children’s books and two for board games. All are overflowing. Behind me is a window covered by a home-sewn sheer-red curtain on a bent curtain-rod. (The children like to pull at them, I made them too long.) On my lap is a three-year-old humanoid, jumping up and down, pulling at my dress and shouting “Mama tum on! you need twoo take me outside!” So this is where the real-time writing experiment must draw to a hasty close. Apologies to any spirits dampened by my musty reflection.