Monday, 4 June 2012

Schleiermacher strasse 13

This time it really feels like an engine that hasn’t been turned over for a long time. This time it really feels like we’re not guests in someone else’s drawing room.

I didn’t expect it to get cold again but here we are in a second winter. The cheap flat has no lights wired into the ceiling and we are carving out a niche in shadows and slippers. I call it the cheap flat but if you saw it you would laugh. Our sofa sits like an abandoned rowboat in the centre of long, still lake. The ripples are polished wooden boards that stretch for miles. In the bathroom, the sink looks like a sheet of folded white pristine paper.

It is neat and beautiful and empty and adorned with red rope lights, now, to make it warm. James is delighted with the colours that play on my cheeks as I lean in. Without overhead lighting, we are soft pink squidgy things; without bulbs, our boundaries spill and puddle.

I am ready to like it and I do. No bulbs, no internet, no one else’s things. Just a parquet floor and candy cane striped wall box. At the edges of the road I will find things and drag them home and we will make ourselves happy with objects. I will take a photo and show it to you soon. You will smile and you will tell me it’s beautiful.

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