Monday, January 26, 2015

Snowy and Esoteric Idealism (Apartment 220)

Driving through the country in the dusty twilight exposes the universe in it's truest state of homeostasis. It's yet to be disturbed by industry, by humanity, at this time of day. See the universe has to maintain homeostasis, meaning nothing too bad can happen without an equally good thing happening to counteract it. Like Newton's Third Law, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. My father is a philosophy professor, esoteric dialogues have been the nightly dinner conversation since before I could articulate my basic human needs through words.
Mom and Dad, Reagan and Anthony, live two hours away from me. I make the drive every Sunday, mainly for the scenery. The amount of pictures I have strung up in my small second floor apartment is obscene, it's overbearing really.
But it's picturesque. And when it snows it's like entering a hazy dream world free of obscenities and impurities. In my dream world drive, the universe was already starting to reset itself after it's momentary skew towards the negative.
Magdalene, the maintenance lady at Dreamwood, came into the shop this morning looking for a book about a security camera. I'd made a point to remember her name after my first encounter with her because she'd made a distant comment chastising the rest of the tenant for never remembering who she was. Cordiality was also bound to shift the universe in my favor once it got out of whack apartment wise.
Dreamwood had been a relatively ideal first apartment when I first moved in. Fresh out of my parents house, not so fresh out of college. It was cheap, livable. Bearable until you wake up to find your hand resting in a pool of water.  The pipes must have burst from the cold front that came in overnight. Remembering Magdalene's name came in handy after all, it'd be fixed must sooner than it would have otherwise. Even still, I needed to head out to my parents place a day early, wait it out until the standing water was cleared from my apartment.
I didn't mind though as I watched the universal clock reset as my tire tracks sullied the freshly dropped snow.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015


No matter how cold it was outside there was always a square foot of pavement on Main Street that radiated heat. It was as though all the heat decided that to stay warm in the winter it would congregate in this square foot of space in front of Dreamwood Terrace. I paused here briefly on my way down Dreamwood Ave, to Frank's bookstore hoping to store up as much heat as I could before I committed to the walk. The olive green coat I normally wore now belonged to whichever Dreamwood resident had found it in the mail room at the start of the week. As far as layers go, I didn't bother with them much anyway to begin with. It was unseasonably warm so I left on the loose fitting white t-shirt I wore to bed.

The bookstore opens at 8. There's never any reason for me to be late to work, I wake up at 4 and have three hours to get ready, but I hardly ever show up on time. Frank's hardly got any business. Occasionally a student from the community college a few blocks away would stumble in looking for a break from the big business bookstore model, but other than that the store stood still, collecting dust on first edition copies of the classics. Despite the lack of profit the store made, I managed to keep my job there for a steady two years. The hum of the radiator staved off anxiety.

Ignatious Bellmont drove up in a creaky old truck at 10 o clock. He walked to the door with his own folding table table under his arm and a slight limp in his gait. Outside of his car were three cardboard boxes, presumably filled with the book he was peddling, "How to Make Friends and Keep Them" or something like that. Unmemorable. My palms were sweating for him, his ambitions were high but I knew he'd be lucky if he sold even two copies today.

In the back corner of the shop stands a fifty year old grandfather clock, the only item in the store that I bothered to dust regularly. Bellmont and I sat through five hour chimes before someone even walked past the store. A tall man in a long dirty coat sauntered up to the big store front window and leaned his back against it. He pulled a joint from his pocket, lit it, and began to take deep contemplative pulls. Picturesque in nature. The Canon Rebel T3i I'd bought two years ago to celebrate my job at Frank's sat by the register. It was a few models behind but the memories that came with it prevented me from upgrading. I grabbed it and stood next to Bellmont and began to shoot the man standing in the window. Shooting relaxed me, I forgot about my anxieties, my low income. I forgot about Bellmont sitting beside me, fan-less and disappointed. The man in the window and the smoke lifting in the air had captured my complete attention.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

4 am. Again. I'd woken up at 4 am or thereabouts for the past week. Something about my worn out mattress on the floor of my small second floor apartment was finally interrupting my sleep/ Even though I'd finally gotten enough money to afford a bed frame I'd suddenly lost the motivation. To be fair my anxiety had kept me in the apartment for the better part of the week. But as I shifted my feet on the dusty carpet I'd bought when I went to college to look out of the curtain-less windows, my anxiety lessened and I was able to make a plan for the day. It was raining and cold, I could easily conceal myself in the shadowy fog if I got overwhelmed. Besides at 4 am no one was bound to be roaming Dreamwood Terrace or the surrounding hell hole of a neighbourhood. So step 1. Get out of the door.
That was all I had. But I figured it was all I needed, once I got out the artist in me would take over, I mean as long as I grabbed my camera before leaving. Thankfully the eeriness of 4 am Dreamwood compelled me to do so. As I headed towards the door I passed by the wall of Polaroids I had put up when I first moved in a year and a half ago. God it'd been so long since I shot. The edges of the photos had begun to yellow and curl. I'd stop to stare at my old photographs too long, I was determined to make it out the front door today. I passed by the old mirror I kept by the door. I looked like Morrissey, heavily tousled hair and square rim glasses. Only I was far less romanticized, in real life no one romanticizes the starving artist. I need a haircut. I'd need to get out of the apartment to do that though.
Rather than lament of the deteriorating state of my youthful looks I unlocked the door and stepped outside, I didn't bother to put a jacket over my plain white t-shirt.