“I used to write poetry,” Viola tells me. “A million years ago, before I got old and fossilized.” “You aren’t old,” I say. “You’re just a baby.” “I’m the same age as you, Bastian. We are antediluvian.” We are in the back yard of her house, seated in wrought iron chairs around the matching iron table. We are not masked in this time of plague, which is fine. The both of us are vaccinated, and we do not go anywhere, do anything. This is the world now. We make do as best we can. “I have a banker’s box in… …
Rivi insists on helping me to unpack, although I try telling her that it isn’t necessary. “Shut up,” she says cheerfully, and starts taking my books from the banker boxes in the living room. “Go do something in the kitchen,” she says. “Make yourself useful.” It’s a change, this apartment, but it’s temporary and necessary: one bedroom, kitchen, bath, living room. Space enough for living and for writing, which is all that I am in need of just now. The plan is to stock up on unhealthy boxed meals and caffeinated beverages, adopt a flexible bathing schedule, and… …
The rain is pouring outside, Biblical and a little unsettling. It pounds against the window of Viola’s attic, and the window rattles in its frame against the wind that whips down from the atmospheric river currently pummeling the west coast. “Well,” Viola says. “Guess we aren’t going out on the roof today.” I raise my mug of coffee and take a sip. “I know I’m not. You’re more than welcome to if that’s what floats your boat.” “I’d need a boat if I went out there,” she says. “Goddamn weather.” Viola has an old blue love seat flush against the… …
Antediluvian Banker’s Boxes“I used to write poetry,” Viola tells me. “A million years ago, before I got old and fossilized.” “You aren’t old,” I say. “You’re just a baby.” “I’m the same age as you, Bastian. We are antediluvian.” We are in the back yard of her house, seated in wrought iron chairs around the matching iron table. We are not masked in this time of plague, which is fine. The both of us are vaccinated, and we do not go anywhere, do anything. This is the world now. We make do as best we can. “I have a banker’s box in… …
Crime Scenes of Christmas FutureRivi insists on helping me to unpack, although I try telling her that it isn’t necessary. “Shut up,” she says cheerfully, and starts taking my books from the banker boxes in the living room. “Go do something in the kitchen,” she says. “Make yourself useful.” It’s a change, this apartment, but it’s temporary and necessary: one bedroom, kitchen, bath, living room. Space enough for living and for writing, which is all that I am in need of just now. The plan is to stock up on unhealthy boxed meals and caffeinated beverages, adopt a flexible bathing schedule, and… …
Twenty Year StormThe rain is pouring outside, Biblical and a little unsettling. It pounds against the window of Viola’s attic, and the window rattles in its frame against the wind that whips down from the atmospheric river currently pummeling the west coast. “Well,” Viola says. “Guess we aren’t going out on the roof today.” I raise my mug of coffee and take a sip. “I know I’m not. You’re more than welcome to if that’s what floats your boat.” “I’d need a boat if I went out there,” she says. “Goddamn weather.” Viola has an old blue love seat flush against the… …