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Purgatory - Sunday, Feb. 10, 2019
Wednesday, Mar. 25, 2015 @ 6:00 pm
These days. Painting in the new place, carefully cutting in the edges around the trim, big swaths of dove grey from the large roller, crisp arctic white on the mouldings. Rolling over the finished surface, top to bottom, I step one foot on a stool and stretch up on my toes, then down low to a crouch, all the way around the room. Placing a layer of paint between us as the previous, an exorcism of sorts, removing the traces of evidence of previous occupation.
These days, coming down the stairs in the morning, the sun just rising, or maybe the rain falling loudly on the skylights. Standing under the shower head, hot water raining down on me, thinking about how I now own this bathroom, this bathtub, this faucet. Coming home and putting the key in the door, my door, and the whirr of bicycles behind me, a bicycle commuter super-highway, and the trees giant and leafless above me.
These days, misty mornings out in the valley surveying. Working wordlessly with my survey partner, a language of semaphore amongst the moss, ferns, and cedars of a series of washed out ravines. Taking breaks at countryside coffee shops, steaming my face over Earl Grey tea, waiting for my hands to thaw before heading out once again into the damp west coast afternoon.