It feels like a room, like any other room. There is a computer, some bookshelves, a bed, a closet, four walls, and a floor. Yet there are things which make it indescribable. The lone silk scarf hanging from a nail in the ceiling. The plush tiger-stripped chair. Maps, from the West Indies to Illes Balears to Switzerland. Books stacked upon books, lining the walls, separated into categories. Bibles in ten different languages.
Nailed to the front door is a painting done by a street artist in Vancouver, who would stand over the canvas and in thirty seconds, create a space scene, complete with a giant planet, a towering jade pyramid, and a cold, forsaken tree. There are collages scattered across the four walls, some of photographs of trees and old buildings, some with cut-out magazine faces.
An old LP rests on top of one of the bookshelves. It doesn't work, but was kept for memorabilia, and the one-day hope that the spindle can be found, which was lost during transport from Chicago to San Francisco. A blue, steel-stringed guitar dozes off quietly, leaning on the LP. It can't be played, for no one knows how. Yet there is a dream there, just as in the opposite corner of the room where the notebooks filled with unpublished manuscripts are stacked, and the collage filled with plane tickets to places across the globe is nailed.
There are visions here. Outside the room, the house is cold. It is early morning, and the heat has not been turned on yet. The alarm clock beeps, and the two giant black dogs next door get excited, their voices resounding like hammers. The dawn sun lets some thin beams through the shades.
Nailed to the front door is a painting done by a street artist in Vancouver, who would stand over the canvas and in thirty seconds, create a space scene, complete with a giant planet, a towering jade pyramid, and a cold, forsaken tree. There are collages scattered across the four walls, some of photographs of trees and old buildings, some with cut-out magazine faces.
An old LP rests on top of one of the bookshelves. It doesn't work, but was kept for memorabilia, and the one-day hope that the spindle can be found, which was lost during transport from Chicago to San Francisco. A blue, steel-stringed guitar dozes off quietly, leaning on the LP. It can't be played, for no one knows how. Yet there is a dream there, just as in the opposite corner of the room where the notebooks filled with unpublished manuscripts are stacked, and the collage filled with plane tickets to places across the globe is nailed.
There are visions here. Outside the room, the house is cold. It is early morning, and the heat has not been turned on yet. The alarm clock beeps, and the two giant black dogs next door get excited, their voices resounding like hammers. The dawn sun lets some thin beams through the shades.
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