Often in the morning I grab at the orange juice and violently
drink from the carton. The yellow kitchen points in all directions
as my head tilts back.
Sitting at the small table pressed length wise to the wall, two
faded yellow chairs continue. Here Rory and I discussed politics.
Here David and I discussed language.
David possesses nothing on purpose. This sparseness is an
arrangement with god. I sit down to meditate amongst these
possibilities and watch as fruit flies manifest.
Rory possesses mass on purpose. This abundance is an
arrangement with god. I sit down to meditate amongst this
weight and watch as fruit flies manifest.
This house was built in the 20’s, and there are no rats or rodents.
I look out the window and see the neighbors; their house also
built in the 20’s. They are not vultures or lions.
The back door leading into the kitchen locks with a sliding chain
lock. It breathes and needs paint, while the front door has two
sets of hinges, splitting in half like a toy.
Our only phone is in the kitchen. Attached is an answering
machine that repeatedly tells us of its “low battery”, but there is
nothing we can do. It has a woman’s voice.
Taped to the yellow tiles of the kitchen wall is a quote from
Hellen Mellicost, the head cook at a Monastery in Colorado. It
begins; I was regretting the past and fearing the future...
Nobody will write a book about this kitchen. The first sentence
will not read: This kitchen was a Saint. Nor will it read: As the
garbage piled up...
I was told once that a refrigerator does not make cold air, or pull
cold air into itself. Instead it pushes warm air out. This idea sits
with me late at night as floodlights stream through the windows.