a little more time.

The other morning I think my neighbor caught me topless through my dining room, his kitchen window. I thought our blinds were closed when I was walking to the kitchen wearing my pj bottoms, but one was open. They’ve moved out now. Probably not because of my toplessness. I’m looking over through the same windows now. The hall light in their apartment is on and it’s all empty. I feel sad about their empty little apartment. Incidentally, if anybody wants it, it’s a nice 2-bedroom up here in the R-Park, cheap. Great landlord. Empty and sad right now. Needs some people. And you might occasionally catch me in stages of partial undress, if someone leaves the blinds open.

It’s 11:17 already. 11:18. November 13, almost 14. Monday almost. I need a little more time. It’s been such a weekend. A weekend on the end of a fall that I pretty much missed on the end of a juggernaut of a summer. And so on. I pretty much missed my favorite season. I won’t dwell on that too much. I get so thankful sometimes that it’s a little much, like I can’t look straight at you, I might cry on your shoes or run away. What a weekend. What a life. Thank you. YOU. and all of you.

11:26. 11:27.

rage

Wednesday night, I came home, and then Ben came home and told me that someone had broken our front door. (So it happened after I came home but before Ben did.) That’s how he put it, that someone had broken it, like they did it on purpose. The next time I passed I checked it out, and there it was: a sun of shatter right about at the bottom of your ribcage, with gorgeous long beams shearing up to the left corner and down to the bottom. The front door of our building is made out of glass and has a bar across the middle on the outside, a bar that crosses the epicenter of the shatter pattern, so whatever hit it probably hit it from the inside. Right about at the level of your fist at close range, was the first thing I thought, and the next thing I thought was, whose fist in this building is the most likely? But what was I assuming, really? It’s also the same level of your elbow if you happened to be slipping backwards into the door, or about where your hand might brace if you were falling and trying to catch yourself against the glass. Or a baseball. Or any number of things.

But your first thought was probably the right one. Someone probably hit the door on purpose. That’s the most likely explanation, really.

But I don’t want to choose an answer just because it’s likely. I don’t want to choose an answer at all. I don’t want to have thoughts like that. When I see evidence of rage I want the…the strength? I don’t know. Whatever it is, whatever it takes to believe in something finer, to leave the possibility open.