started from an e-mail I wrote this morning

My early morning consisted of more cold pizza, updates from the uprising in Turkey, and stark wonder at the absolute disaster area my room has turned into. What is your place like?  Mine looks like I've kept the motor running. I tore it apart before my trip, unable to find something, (plus my coat rack fell down just as I was leaving, taking a shelf with it), returned to the mess, then threw a party, then left town again, and now I'm sitting in the middle of it, overwhelmed. I've put on some music and managed a shower, but now I'm shuffling things around, unable to see an end to the jumble. Piles of books, paper, and electronics all over my desk, a strange miscellany of taxidermy, teacups, and laundry everywhere else. I've been sleeping in a small cocoon of pillows, as the majority of my bed has been turned into a stuff sorting table.

Now I'm tucked in at Kyle's place, situated in an entirely different cocoon of pillows as I write and he tinkers with red velvet waffles with cream cheese sauce. I'm checking mail, writing snippets to people, arranging the pieces of my life into an immediate future. He has just explained to me that red velvet is just a prettied up chocolate, though he doesn't understand why. I returned that the red is to make it sexy, to show it's chocolate that's ready to mate. My music from earlier is still playing. The buttermilk I brought over has gone into the batter. Kyle is making chocolate truffle coffee in time to the tapping of my keys on the keyboard. There are two teenage girls at the kitchen table, quietly in recovery from whatever they were up to last night.

I feel like I'm borrowing someone else's domesticity. I am the house-cat, rock and roll purring, a gray and black creature come in from the cold. I can't express how much I wish I had this myself.

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