Manhattan (August, 2011) — It’s always about the beds but what about what I see when I’m lying there? The fixtures and cracks and spiders and webs. However, there are no spider webs at my brother’s house. It is immaculate and every cornice is painted crisply. Every architectural moulding has been sanded smooth and to the line. There is no loose wiring. I am staying here alone while he and his family take a two week sailing trip up to Cape Cod on an equally tight ship.
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Alone is good because I have nothing to give in terms of good company or aunthood. I am exhausted. The travel has caught up with me. I am spending a lot of time looking at the ceiling. Sometimes I just lie on the floor, too tired to take the extra steps to the air bed in Rafi’s office. Like Goldilocks, I spend the night in different beds under the same roof. I like the baby’s bed best. Julian’s bed with the tiger who watches and the sculpted shades and the crayons neatly stored in buckets.
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Imetai told me to rest until I’m rested. How do I know when this necessary resting crosses the line and becomes indulgent slothdom? Every day that I am not on the run feels like a crime. But when I go out, even then I end up supine, like the day I ended up on the floor of Threshhold, my camera still in my hand. Lights out. Or lights on, it doesn’t matter.
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When I think of packing my suitcase and heading back east, which I will be doing soon enough, my body droops to one side.
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