This New Room

Yes, all the sawing and the hammering and the sandpapering have all been accomplished. I have a brand new aparador and cabinet. I thought for a while that all the excess books which two weeks ago were just sitting one on top of another on the floor will not fit into the new cabinet. Gladly, they all went in, and all my other stuff too. It's a wider room now, although my perspective hasn't changed -- I'm still facing the wall. I've moved my writing table, my computer table, my paper and etcetera table, and my filing cabinet here and there, tried all the corners, looked for the most aesthetically pleasing layout, but this is still the best place for them, and for me.

The wall of course has changed, in fact the wall i face is nearly gone, because the cabinet took a fourth of it and between my printer and the cabinet, it's only a ruler of space. Actually, it does not really matter since I am often looking not at the wall but on my computer. I miss some greenery though. My next project is to put some place outside the window where I can station a pot of plant, like in the movie "The Professional". The professional, who is actually a hired killer, has only his plant to take care of. And until the time of his death, that plant became a symbol of life for him, who lived by delivering death.

Death isn't a factor for those who have decided to live by dying to themselves each day. I just recently saw a movie at HBO about a suffragist who defied death as she fought for the cause of women in the early 1900s. She was asked to explain herself and she said, "What is there to explain?" It was the time when women were not even able to fend for themselves because their money had to come from their husbands. Tonight, a single friend texted me to say that single people are always asked the same question: "Why aren't you married?" She said that the answer is not because she does not have a choice, but because it's not yet time. And I wonder, why she needed to explain herself?

What questions matter?

The question of space does not limit me, because I've always rented space. Finally, here at home, I don't have to rent space. I stare on the wall, I think for something to write about, I stop, I write again, I look at the wall, at the cabinets, at my aparador... where's the muse? My back on the adjacent room, I can't see whose coming up the stairs unless she speaks.

I am always startled at the slightest sound.

Just One Image Please

He's staring not at me
But up, i follow this boy's gaze
to the roof
and what does he see?
a piece of wall, maybe
the bookshelf
but his eyes are fixed
mouth a little agape
that innocent face
that questioning gaze
his eyes nearly crying
5 R
pinned on my cabinet
my sole inspiration.
copyright April 2006 Jophen Baui